My Lady’s hair is red and gold,
Curled like smoke in autumn air.
I crave to do all I am told,
And write for her when she’s not there.
Her image in my heart and mind,
Create for now my chosen cage.
On waking then my task I find,
To set my words upon this page.
And gladly will I fetch for her,
Whatever she would most desire,
A winter’s coat of rabbit fur,
A riding crop should her patience tire.
A passion that I cannot hide;
To kneel meekly by her side.

2014