Monday, May 7, 2012

Stranger from Yore

The wellspring was empty when she came down
Out of the heights of that old hallowed town.
Though yestereve there was a great bold storm
That swept across the sky sheets of rain; worn
Was the rain with the brunt of the wind, and
Full of life it was not. And so the land
Suffered, was dried, and became a most hot
Dune of dirt; little more than yellow sand
By which glass may in its due turn be wrought.
Yet for now the well is empty of ought

That should be in a wellspring, that should give
Life to the one that comes for water.
Yet it is made fully clear to her
That she shall have no winter spring
By which she may draw from; and to live
She shall have to travel far and wide,
Must stoop low to beg, humble her pride.
So it would have been if it weren't for
Him, that jolly old fellow of Yore!

But where is Yore, to begin with,
In relation to desert springs
Gone dry in middle winter slump?
Why should he, like old Forrest Gump,
Climb quite merrily from his own town
To turn upside down woman's frown?
And where did he get those new boots
That sound much like owl hoots?

But none of these questions made
In the stillness of time's cave
Were ever given Yoreman;
For as soon as he came in
Sight of her, he walked right up
To her! Kissing her hand he
Said, "Something the matter Mam?"

Quite taken aback now,
And unaware of how,
This man of Yore should know
That she was in trouble,
She made bold of his help;
And his kindness she felt

Within her beating
Heart of trouble.
And said to him,
Can you help me?

To the hell
Desert well,

Well now!
Said he;


I'll see
What I,

A young spry
Man of-oh-
Say thirty?

Can do for you,
Madam, or miss? blue!
I'll have a fix
In a jiffy!

Then with another
Kiss on her fair hand,
He lifted up his
Heels and did command
That his boots begin!

Begin what? Thought she then
Of this man as a fool,
A mere wanderer, tool!
Vein in his dashing looks,
Probably fraudulent
In all of the good books!

Yet the man didn't mind much
That she felt not the old touch
That went down from his old boots
Into the raging cold shoots
Of the spring far down below!
Yet he'd been stomping the ground,
And said at once, y'ello hound!

For upwards and out of the hole,
That he had just made, shot twenty,
Thirty, of the golden brigade!
Nuggets in sizes small and large
That would have all fit in a barge
Of fifty feet long, ten foot wide;
And behind it came, with a blast,
The rest of the tide, at long last!

So she backed away from this man
As he stepped out of the well. Though tan
And fine, and golden too, his looks were,
Well, perhaps not so true. His only
Thought at the present was the golden
Nuggets. Yet the peasant, the blue girl,
That he'd helped but a moment ago,
Was now standing, waiting; he was slow.
Finally he looked up from the ground

To see her standing there safe, whole, and sound.
Her frown was indeed turned upside down then,
And as any old rooster by the hen
Is taken by surprise of the woman's
Fair beauty and gentle grace, her presence,
So too was this man from Yore in a small
Moment taken back to adolescence.
She stooped down and gave him a very small
Kiss; but it was enough to make him fall.
But he got back up; forgot the gold balls. 

                               Stranger from Yore, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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