The Mason And The Milk-Maiden

A mid-May morn’ where shining bright the day
Did climb with downy, flitt’rng wings, away
From night defeated. Fool is not the great
And wisest fire who seeks once more to sate
Both mighty tree and humble weed in like
And equal measures – gracious so, his strike
Upon the fertile land, that man and mouse
And bird and bug can dine within his house
Without deception. Though the creep of shade
Does lengthen slow and languidly to wade
From ‘neath the earth, the shining, open heart
Shall keep a golden hand on guard, impart
Its sympathies throughout and will the dark
Not to retreat, but stay and glimpse the spark
Of life about the world, that it might find
Within its core such brilliant light inclined
Unto itself.

The grasses glowed and bent
Beneath the soothing breath of clouds, a scent
Of viscous pollen on the breeze and met
By tiny crystal globes which hung, beset
With curving pictures, from the heads of green
And yellow plants. They moved in waves across
The sweeping fields as does the ocean toss
About the tides – from south to north the air
Did float to strike against the stony snare
Of hills, whereupon it scattered high
And circled ‘round to aim its gentle sigh
Once more against the constant face.
Where fissures lined the greying side the space
Was filled with echoing tweets of birdsong fair
And packed the splits to brim delight which ne’er
So sweetly echoed.  

Morning was a gift
Befit unto the Kings and Queens who lift
Their prudent eye and turn their careful ear
‘Pon every needing soul, yet waking clear
And glad the Mason thanked the merriment
Beyond the highest lord and with intent
He took his hammer, chisel and his knife
And set upon his merry way a-rife
With little whis’ling ditties which he sung
On each and every day, and so he swung
From pretty Hathersage to work, where rocks
Were shaped upon the hill and rounded. Blocks
Of granite chipped and carved by markéd hand
Hewn rough by weathered months of forming land
To shape. The Mason clinked and clangéd strong
Against the stone and brought it so along
To fit the mill where it would rasp the wheat
In powdered grain to serve the luscious suite
Of baking-oven bread, the river quick
And sure and singing past the tall, fresh rick
To splash against the waterwheel.

His toil
Was swiftly done with deft and nimble broil
‘Ere long, and standing it upon its end
He rolled it down the field to there attend
Among the friendly trees the Miller stout
And proud of stance. So working with the drought
Within his mouth he rest the stone so by
A rill and bent to cup the stream. Awry
The current splashed about his arm and fussed
About the course like pearls uncaring thrust
Into an ocean gale. The Mason drank
The cooling stuff and smiled inside to rank
Within refreshment.  With the water’s song
Upon his ear like bells in lilting throng
And light and shade across his dappled chest
He spied a young and pretty thing bedressed
In floating smock who stepped upon the blades
Of em’rald grass with del’cate, charmed cascades
Of dainty footfall. Slender toe to straw-
Shade gliding hair like liquid silk she saw
The Mason, turned upon him smiles which he
Himself had proffered sweetly in degree
Ten-fold abound. She carried in her arm
A pail of glitt’ring silver, glimm’ring charm
And charity. Beside his solid stone
The Mason noticed shrewd a thing lie prone
Within her little hand - a leather sheath
Wherein a knife might snugly sit beneath
The warm allure of comfort. So she held
An outstretched gift, the Mason grinned and swelled
With joy and splashed across the narrow brook,
Received it in his grasp and, clever, took
A complex knot and fixed it to his hip.
He quickly plunged his blade therein with grip
Expertly seized and sighed the Milk-Maid did,
And so the Mason too, that ne’er forbid
The sheath the perfect fit in forests where they hid.

End.