The Maid Among the Heather
Pink and yellow flowers up the mountain's side,
far in the sky where the clouds are born.
There she danced; and there she whirled,
a gossamer sprite against the blue.
Supple willows up the hills' expanse,
shade for the bowers and the burgeoning rills,
seven of their sisters grouped in a ring
to guard the daughter of the moorland's marsh.
Fast she flew along the crest,
dancing, spinning on horizon's breadth.
fleet like a feather, swift like the wind,
forever singing where rivers begin.
Up the steep meadows I ran like a child,
arms outstretched to catch the dream
slowly fading into mountain's mist,
beyond my grasp on dawn's gold beams.
© 2016 John M. Marshall