The Mistress of Locksley
Sir Robin made Maid Marian
His wife before the King.
Bells towered high o'er Nottingham,
Announced with their loud ring.
No more to lead an outlaw band,
No need for daring-do,
But action was his meat and bread.
T'was quiet he did rue.
Now his fair wench, for wench she was
Behind bed chamber doors,
Knew that his soul would start to chafe,
If all he trod were floors.
She was a lusty soul herself,
More than most Norman shes,
A headstrong lass who chose her way,
Quite deaf to parents pleas.
She crossed his path one young spring day,
When birds and leaves were new.
She slew him with her first shy smile,
As Eros dart flew true.
Through out the fight with Nottingham,
'Til pardoned by the King,
They two made use of forest glades,
Where Robin made her sing.
Then all was well, no more to tell,
His tales retold anon.
Her adult life as Robin's wife,
Most noble dangers gone.
She bore Lord Locksley's little ones,
A cockerel and two hens.
They grew up landed, well to do,
No need to ply his sins.
He was the head, she was the heart,
They two, wove strongly one.
The best of each was molded in
His daughters and her son.
The yeoman, late of Sherwood fame,
Found home life not so tame,
Especially when young lordlings sought
To change his daughter's name.
And of the son, then growing tall,
A Locksley at a glance,
His shoulders broad, and on display,
In striking bowman stance.
The life they lived, their last good years,
Was different than the start.
When Marian, sweet Norman girl,
Tamed his young English heart.
Richard Higley © Feb 18, 2015
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The Wandering Bard
Poetrythe difference between tales of war and the reality of same
