Pastoral Fantasy

(Because I am, after all, a simple country bard.)


We sit before the evening fire,
My lady fair and I,
Resting from a day of work,
And letting the night pass by.
Any chores remaining
Will wait until the morn.
We've done all a body can,
Borne all that can be borne.
The wood is chopped, the plates are clean,
The washing is hung to dry.
Tomorrow's tools have been sharpened
And await use by and by.
Dogs, under the table, gnawing bones,
Children asleep in their beds.
Cat's on the prowl, hunting for mice
In the rafters over our heads.
We're common folk, not noble born.
We sweat for our daily bread.
Yet at night we rest much easier
Than many a noble head.
And if the work has made us bent
And gray before our time,
We remember those heady days
When we were in our prime.
Though wrinkles touch my lady's eyes,
She's still a beauty to me.
No paramours in golden bower
Love happily as we.
When my lady warms my bed and my heart
I'm still her tongue-tied beau.
Thus, I sit here and scratch these lines
That I might tell her so.