The wyman rode a shelty to see she-familiar,
and it was a very beautiful day.
stinking of blood and fur and cattle and iron,
the wyman was still alive, hauling in breaths all sherry-moor,
fingers trembling around the leather bridle,
eyes all-a-shere at the fact he’d made it out at all,
the road was alive and alert and his prayers to escape
the plague of pain that had glowed at him had
been answered because as he crested the hill
he saw the swishing of a mahogany dress in the wind
which was standing at the door to their shared cabin
far away from the prying eyes of those that would
never understand the love shared by two wyman.