The
Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website
Feral Woman
By
Rusty Broadspear
Sounds of pealing bells scatter down,
Invisible petals fall all around.
The young maiden, scrawny, lithe
And in cheap tight dress, she reaches up.
Angry, screeching – I watch her writhe,
Shaking her fists at the evening sky.
Complexion
Shoeless, bare arms, vulnerable
To the elements and my curious stare.
A captive animal without a cage.
Her head whips round trailing auburn hair.
Eyes smouldering – I step back afraid.
She throws me, she knows me,
Sees through me and like a spiritual grenade
She explodes into my very soul.
Her pure essence is conveyed, displayed,
Such a Holy sight, I’m filled with fright,
Wonderment and pure delight.
In the clearing in the forest, the breeze dies
A residue of soothing quiet, ensues.
While I think of what I’d seen, she lies
Quite still. Vulnerable, such flimsy cover, no shoes.
Whose fluid life, I’d watched, in moments.
Sobbing softly, at the scars engraved so deep
Upon her heart. No longer entwined, sadly apart,
I walk over, hold her hand, as she rests in sleep.
Maybe not sleep - my mind rocked, as her eyes unlocked
She was brimming with a love for me – that I could see.
Mutual emotions - not unexpected – still, I was shocked.
This woodland nymph from nowhere, was so cold,
Yet so warm. I covered her and carried her, to a secret place,
We talked, we kissed, chopped off our dubious chains.
And in her hands she held my face
And in my hands I held her face.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work
