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