The virgin maiden watched him,

Enclosed in her leafy bower,

As he shook the mane of tangled gloss,

Pawing, panting, crushing the flowers.

Up there within the stream,

He drank to ease his thirst,

Ears alert to every sound,

Poised to run away, his curse.

The woodland sighed and waited,

And the marshes quivered and swooned,

But she calmed him with her presence,

Singing low, a haunting tune.

Entwined about his noble head,

She placed a flowered wreath,

Then gently stroked the silken fronds,

And tamed his tortured breath.

By Beleta Greenaway

Kaleidoscope Publishing 1994