Lady of the Moors
High on windswept moorland,
bathed in a sinister, unforgiving winter
She stands alone against the gale
Clad in black cape and white ruffled gloves
A teardrop-shaped hat of black roses
covers her hair.
From the valley below
her figure appears ghostly.
Her skin, so pale
stands in relief against the gloomy landscape
One can just make out her cries.
At a distance they are merely a whimper.
I approach
A bolt of thunder
She is gone
I love her
by Alan Loren
