My Lady Of The Priory

My Lady of the Priory your eyes are cold as ice, your heart a burden that is carried heavy like the stone which make up the walls of your residence.
Walls where once pious tapestries draped depicting dramatic images of Christ, where pictures hung of portly fellows astride fine mounts engaged in colourful country pursuits.

Where is the Lady of the night? Who intoxicated, seduced and bewitched so many a poor soul,
With hair;  thick with ringlets which cascaded over childlike shoulders, flowing down across the contours of a flawless satin back.
Curls like soft springs which brushed across cheeks of perfect pink, lightly bouncing on every step taken.

Hair; jet black like Ravens that frequent the empty halls you now walk.
Alas, no longer does it shine with highlights caught by the sun.
Your youth taken from you by a cruel turn of fate, mind rendered blank like a canvas lacking paint.
No sound do you utter, you have nothing to say;  your face appears sad lifeless, sullen and grey.

The wedding dress you wear is tattered and torn; oh! how you morn.
No shoes are there upon your dainty feet, or pretty ribbons in your hair.
On asking for your hand in marriage, declaring my love like no other.
You mocked my proposal, you made fun of me.
So broken hearted I left my home to sail the seas, to return with gold and marry thee.

A wealthy Lord you chose to wed,
but not before the cad took you to his bed.
Promises of taking you for his bride, all resulted in but hideous lies.
Your wedding day did not take place;   jilted were you in disgrace.
So now My Lady can only be found,
haunting this desiccated, lonely ground.

Breda Ware