CANTO II
Few fortunes come to those who choose
To stay secure, afraid to lose
The safety of familiar things;
For though uncertainty’s strange wings
Convey us into mystery,
They set us down unerringly
Much closer to our destiny--
Whatever that may fin’lly be.
Now Asmo, stopping there to chat,
Unmindful of this caveat,
Would much rather have been at home
Gnawing black bread and honey-comb
Whilst downing ales, yet here he was,
Doing what ev’ry young man does
When girls appear. With telltale hair
Aflutter in the swirling air,
This lovely frigate in a sea
Of swelling blooms sailed fulsomely
From isles of pink to isles of blue,
Ignoring him. Now, hitherto,
Asmo had had his share of girls,
Bar wenches mostly. All his whirls
Had been in bushes or in barns,
And none had touched the distant tarns
Of his emotions. Something ‘bout
This maiden’s bearing made the lout
Within him cautious, so he called,
“Why is it that you’re so enthralled
With flowers, lady? They just die
Right quickly.” “No, not if you dry
Them,” she replied then--looking up
For the first time. If beauty’s cup
Could e’er be filled to brimming’s lip,
Then Nature’d made this flower ship
To sail right over that sweet edge,
Thought Asmo, dropping to the sedge
That grew along the cattle fence.
He summoned all the eloquence
That he possessed and took a breath.
“Though pretty, they’re not moist in death,”
He said. “Is not their petals’ wet
What makes them soft? One can’t forget
That fact.” “With herbs their potency
Does not go limp,” she smiled sweetly,
“When they are dried. In fact, they last
Much longer that way, in contrast
To this discussion.” Off she walked
Into the meadow. Asmo stalked
Off after her once o’er the fence
He’d leapt. “I offer no offense
Against your wisdom’s firm redoubt,”
He purred. “Then leave now or I’ll shout
And bring the townsfolk,” she replied,
“And claim you hurt me.” “You’d have lied.”
“And you’d be in the South Stitch stocks
And wish you weren’t.” She liked his locks,
The way they hung down jauntily.
“Then helpless either way I’d be,”
He answered, “for I’m helpless now.”
“How’s that?” “Well, I got lost somehow
Yet found myself here, in this place,
Helpless before your lovely face.”
The girl fell silent, picked some herbs,
And gazed out t’ward the town’s suburbs.
“South Stitch, you say. That’s this town’s name?”
He asked to change the subject’s claim
Upon them. “Yes. You say you’re lost?”
“I am. I’m learning now the cost
Of chopping down a Rowan tree.”
The girl looked at him owlishly.
“A magic Rowan, from the south?”
“The Rowan Hills.” She bent her mouth
Into a thoughtful, pursed display,
Then said, “And it has yet to slay
You? That’s obscure.” “You know of them?”
“My father does. So this mayhem
You caused was your own doing, boy?”
“I didn’t think it would destroy
My life. It killed my best friend, too.”
Thus they pursued their interview,
He, posing as a common man,
She, fiddling with a talisman
That lay atop her bosom’s cleft.
Squinting, they talked, as to their left,
The stippled lake flashed silver spoons
Off rippled wavelets, carved like runes
By sculpting winds--fate-winds derived
From gath’ring clouds, clouds which contrived
The sunset's rose to frame in gold--
‘Neath which, oblivious, they strolled.
