Down the winding dusty way
A woman comes. Between the trees she steps.
The trailing ground-length tendrils
Refrain from swaying where she passes.
Down through the willow branches, face pale and frightened,
The ghost of Lady Coquetrelle goes to seek her love.
Up from the river-reeds
Her lover comes. Across the marsh he steps;
The gray-green water drowns in shadow,
Does not part to draw him down.
Up through the willows, face drawn and angered,
The ghost of Lord Grimalkir goes to seek his love.
The sky is heavy indigo
Wrapped in skeins of moonlight cloud.
There beneath the three moons’ gaze,
Wrapped in shadowed memories,
Two pale forms draw closer
Untouched by ghosts of whimpering wind.
Her bridal gown drips diamond light.
Spidersilk enswathes her form.
Underneath her long lace veil
Her violet eyes are bright with tears.
One long year ago, beneath the Lornon harvest moon,
Lord Grimalkir perished here by Coquetrelle’s white hand.
His sword gleams bright in moon or shade.
His lion-crested scarlet shield
Is slung across his shoulder without fear.
His dead drowned eyes gleam vengeful blue.
One long year has passed, and on this Lornon harvest moon,
Lady Coquetrelle returns to face Grimalkir’s justice.
She drops her eyes. She cannot bear
To meet his coal-bright vengeful gaze.
She kneels– her skirts pool down snow white
Untouched by river slime– she bows her head.
And now he takes a quick step back– and now shis sword is coming down–
“I love you,” whispers Coquetrelle, even as the grim blade falls....
And then the blade is sheathed again–
And Coquetrelle remains unharmed,
Still shuddering with the doom to come.
Lord Grimalkir kneels beside her,
Takes her hands in his, and speaks: “I loved you–“ tears in dead blue
eyes,
“My shimmering bride, my shattered dream, I love you even still.”
Their further words go still untold–
But when he saw the rope-burns blazoned
Round her wrists and slender throat,
He kissed her wounds with tenderness.
Where the lips of Lord Grimalkir touched the flesh of Coquetrelle,
The red welts healed, and some dark stain rinsed out of her pale soul.
With dawn’s light dancing through the trees,
The two must part– their gazes linger,
But their footsteps draw away–
Lornon moon has almost set.
Beneath vermilion skies, one seeks the gray-green river,
And one retreats down dusty road to where they slew her for her crime.
But yearly, under harvest skies,
When orange mists cloak the Lornon moon,
Down the winding dusty way
A woman comes. Between the trees she threads,
And up from tall green river-reeds
Her lover comes. Across the marsh he steps.
Beneath the shade of willow-trees, their pale shapes dance, alive with
longing grace,
And when they part, their gazes link, until they fade with dawn.