The Lady Bartholomew

I am the Lady Bartholomew!
Not some poet’s muse!
How dare he write of me
In lust! Yet gracefully…

That he doth dare to think
I may, in some dark corner,
Spread my blessed wings,
Or entreat his push of things.

“Long and thick,” the maidens say
Chattering I dare not hear.
How dare he come so close, so near!

His scent entices me, like woods and sweat.
His voice, rustic and deep, witnesses the thrill
He simply shall not know. Not now. Not Ever!

My husband would not care for
My curiosity of this theatrical bard.
Is he really, truly as hard
As they say?

If I may, for a moment,
Lie in wait here, nearest his gate
As I prune these roses
For the dinner plate.

I shall not look too long
At what lies beneath his kilt
When I bend to fetch the fallen blossom.

Perhaps I shall trip, and land
Gracefully upon my back
Here in the grass, where none shall see.

But him, and me.
In the shade of the abbey.

He comes!
And I dare not look.
I am his Lady Bartholomew.

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