Bathsheba’s Promise

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O’ tumbled then the fairest whiskey both an’ the flowered wreath in Crispin’s wake

Who lit a flame and carried bower o’er’ morning dew whoever slew the fatted ox

Or caught the sun it’s nestled slew which drew an auburn haze ablaze at set of sun

The fairest wench I ever saw dressed with flowing hair and velvet skirts replete

Whose smile and pretty eyes in no wise disguise the frailty of her ficklest gaze

That meets the dawn of each and every mornings days wherein we run our race

With part hope, part fear, afraid to look even for some earnest cheer or praise or promise

Bathsheba knows and always follows at a distance decked with grace of a certain kind 

Written, woven, carved into her face and set, if not in stone, then with cautions steed

Who runs at speed while Bathsheba sits aside the saddle dedicate and delicate

Not knowledge, or esteem, or wonder, or gratitude, or lovelorn duty or respect

While we watch the ancient clock engulf the curr and write a name of pedigree

We, who were born to handle and cure the strangest, strongest meats yet hover now

Over death-defying feats, at least complete and safe in the knowledge of deceit

Good grace that welcomes charm is but lost on Sheba’s less than noble arm and hollow 

Of all these vestment balms she has but negligible qualms in dressing up to thrill

For Bathsheba is her only gauge and ambivalent to the rage that clatters around her head

In this arena, if nothing more be said, it is that she who has led a least extraordinary life

That flickers, … , brightens, fades, warms to a lighthouse blaze, still glistens off-shore tidy.

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writtenbyedenbray10.11.2018