Tendency to Err'e

Do you know what you do to me...






~)o(~






I read a story today called The Lady of Shalot by Alfred Lord Tennyson, an old tale of an age long dead, castles and knights and a fair woman who'd be cursed if ever her gaze fell toward Camelot. I cried and cried.





Oh, the barley fields, the sheathed wheat and grain in the late of summer, brimming dust and chaffe allong the afternoon wind a straigh't. Mum wounded there by the hunters spear fell dust warn an a'tremblin in the boiling field so golden fayre. A trumpet corus across the plain had brother and sister and father again up with sword and whip and burning brand for bandits and foolish men, and out through the wooden gate and plain we ran with speed like winter wind replayne. Few bandits we did find. Hoards of treasure naught nigh, and theivery hourses dressed in night, old gypsie carts and raping types were naught the eyes that met our fam' and loving might rolling across the ebbing grain and seed agold. It was a humble man, leather coat and blooded hands, which stood straight like winter reed to the setting sun, and like winter, his countenance cold and taken far'way. H' plant his feet at mothers side, he drew the spear and held it high with lung blown trumpet and wind tossed hair, he gazed at father slowing there, and held out the guilty sp'air.

Fair sister let her whip unfirl, bold brother let his fear uncurl.

Father let his screams untrill.

Strange hunter stud stone still.


The summer stag and doe had wand'red throu the evening weeks before, and faithfull straynge did follo.'

The stag was tall and clean, and lost it seemed, till hunter saw him spin and gleam in barley summer glare, and whiter sun had dazzled th' eye of spearman lean and waiting.

But it was mother fayre and limbre, mother tall and spinning there dancing in the barley fields, against the tipping sun, and her flewwing hair like antlers across the ocean of a sky caught the sunns true light and falsified. And in moment, long awaited, the hunting man did threu the mighty sp'air and sailed it to the mark. The bucking and snort consistent, of sorts, was the sight expected and truthly rejected, by mothers simple supries'. A heavenly breath, liken to the passing of the breaze in the barley groves, shew forth from mothers lips, wounded, running red like blackburry, and the quick of the hunter was at her side in an inst'nt to slit the troat of his fayre prize. Blade ball'd in the wind, the spear with it's ribbon and the shock of the fayrest of women, stalled by the hunter, did pause his skilled'd hand.

The shok of the beuty on mothers eyes, the eyes black as midnigh', her summer wheat hair with the barley dirt there, and trembling spear tall in the air, had cleft her clean and true. And as he did with ev'rykill, he covered his hands with the fresh blood, the blood of the bonny Lady, and stood. Remorse was't not about him, but not for of his pride, but the cloth around her wrist echoed of a bride. The art of death was one of his, and he standing in a bloodi' pool, bleu his trumpet hard and long, and tears ran free and cool. For today, it turns, was to be his last, like the Lady at his feet. Like the Lady, seems, with currant eyes, did take his spear so ease, there was but one fate he could stand, to be slewn by her galiant lover, on the very ground his last kill lay. To mingle blood with anouthers, they say, there's no other finer a'redempsien' to say.

So straynge did'st stand till father and brothers and sister over hill and dale did came, and with white sun and clear blue open blowing ayer, Father screamm'd a mysterie. On his nees he fell at best, and gripped her face and breast, and Straynger held his tongue and fear, and offered up the sp'eir.

And with a smyle, the truest of gesture across his mighty chest, the fine hunter invited father with cordiality, "We all, treu to us, kill'st the most lovely of the world. Too treu to the most of us i fear. I pray you strike treuer than my forbidden hand doth deu. Make right the blood of two."

We children blinnk'd and it was through, our father quick with hand did move at sp'ier and fayrest straynger through did open wide his chest, with swooping swirl and srieking lange', our father's turn to weep so straynge, had come in fields of wheat and gold, and together, all there grew too old in a moment from the fold. A moment tall and like the wind, what makes it come and goe? What makes the tyme, with hands so long, decide who else to slow?

That man and Mother in the field, the blood and summer sun, with Father and Sister and Brother and Son, what makes the cowards run? Such things were bare in summer ayre in Barly and Wheat and sheathed seed sweet as the afternoon cooed like the loon and breeze tugged softly at our feet.









______~i just made that up...