• Beyond the gate,
    into the wood,
    where the orchards grow and roses bloom scarlet,
    the clouds blanket the curve of the world,
    and rainfall pours with a dreary guise.

    The fishermen cast out,
    not batting an eye.
    They bring hearty feasts,
    back home to their wives.
    Boats and docks ache,
    under vibrations of water,
    and crabs walk the sands,
    withdrawing for shelter.

    The kettles are on,
    paintings within,
    of kings and queens,
    and princes,
    all prim.

    But the others hung high,
    speak of moons hanging nigh.
    Casting a shadow over lake and tide.
    Or of the lady in red,
    propped up on her side.
    Beautiful hair draping,
    dark,
    like silk.
    Sometimes the girl,
    with her bouncy, blonde curls,
    who's eyes seem to follow,
    as you walk by in candlelight.

    Strange beauty,
    the rainfall.
    The darkness, the cold.
    The white-haired foxes,
    the stallions and colts.
    For every house a sconce,
    fine tapestry,
    and roses.
    Every lady a flower,
    and every flower,
    a chosen.

    Like Gwenevieve Black,
    the leatherworker's daughter.
    Beautiful and fair,
    upstairs with her brother.
    Who loves a poor boy,
    who tills the orchard trees.
    They run off and play,
    a secret kind of breeze.

    They wrote to each other,
    and roses he sent.
    One for every day,
    no matter weeping sky,
    trying to prevent.
    Gwen thought the rain exquisite,
    and so did the farmer boy.
    Under trellis they met,
    to speak of adventures,
    and folk lore.

    But when the brother did find them,
    he the hunter who skinned beast and cured hide,
    the man stormed through the wet and damp,
    to take his sister aside.
    No way, would she be courted by he.
    The lad who tended all the trees.
    While not a noble's daughter was she,
    too good for the farmer boy.

    The secret breeze would come around the bend,
    and lover's hearts would certainly mend.
    The mastiff would bring letters from end to end,
    nobody would know of their affections.

    Until one day, the great city did quiet.
    They heard no news of trade,
    or country, or riots.
    But trouble was blooming, across murky seas.
    And the rainfall,
    while pretty, was bringing unease.

    Gwenevieve's lover, did disappear that eve.
    Went to the city, to buy the girl a ring.
    When morning came,
    her rose did not come.
    She knew that something had to be wrong.
    And so she set off with her brother's hatchet,
    her running boots, and loyal mastiff.
    Through swampland and grassland and down country road.
    Off to the great city, she did go.

    The lights were on, but something was amiss.
    Things were far too quiet,
    and the rain turned to drips.
    The merchant carts were lit,
    smelling of spice and rich,
    but were abandoned completely,
    not a single soul in sight.
    Papers flew in the air,
    newspapers scattered.
    The clock chimed the hour,
    and the hour turned darker.

    The trees were shadowed and twisted in spirals,
    without any leaves or rosebuds or flowers.
    A howl did sound upon the late hour.
    Which sent chills down the spine of the leatherworker's daughter.

    And so she decided that she was to flee.
    She ran down wet streets,
    clothes hanging from lines,
    lines hanging from windows.
    The stars were out and the moon was full,
    she could hear the howling grow louder and near.

    She knew of a passage, that would get her safety.
    There were sheep on the wall,
    fishing poles prepped and ready.
    Through the barrels she did sift to get through to the cellar.
    The rats were heard squeaking,
    and the candles were flickering.

    Stair by stair, she made her way down.
    Candle held with shaking hand,
    Gwenevieve knew she had to sound the alarm.
    But then she saw him, standing in the dark.
    It was the orchard boy, who had so stolen her heart.
    She ran to him, but his eyes were no longer his.
    They were bright like the moon,
    and howl he did.
    His hair a thick mane,
    his fingers turned to claws.
    His finely kept chin,
    was now a set of jaws.
    The wolf grabbed her firm,
    she was no longer his fair lady.
    Beast threw her to the ground, and bit into her shoulder.

    Gwenevieve Black screamed into night.
    But no one would hear her, her yells had no reply.
    Rats heard another sound, a quiet clank of metal.
    The ring from his pocket had fallen,
    surrendered to shadow.

    Upstairs at the leather shop, sat a book on a table.
    Filled with thoughts of love,
    hushed promises,
    and hope.
    Beautiful rainfall pounded against the glass of the window.
    And echoes of howls made red roses shrivel.