The wyman rode a shelty to see she-familiar,
and it was without doubt a beautiful day,
stinking of blood and fur and cattle and iron,
belonging as much to thistle-wreathed cobwebs
as to the worm-eaten logs doused in coppery sunray drizzle
the wyman was still alive, hauling in breaths all sherry-moor,
fingers trembling around the scratched 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
was medicated because as he crested the hill
he saw the swishing of a mahogany dress in the wind
heroically beautiful 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.