(I was given three random words in an exercise, to incorporate into verse: Snowman, Font, Oatmeal)
A moon-shattered oatmeal twilight
illuminated the lane where
a snowman slumped, half-melted, as though he plugged
some dreadful font of sorrows
and a cart haltingly made its way from town
The driver clucked and gee’d
rein-slapped encouragements
while the mare decided the how and when
they might in turn, melt into the near-distant
shadow of trees
The lunar gleam filled the skies
with starpath and glister,
back-lighting a swaying spray of willow
that gathered about a rill
It reflected in the whites of a young girl’s eyes
stood with her feet on the dank lower spars
of the gate that lead to the vicarage
In his demeanour towards her
it was clear the driver
was younger than his dusty apparel suggest
He served his father, a miller,
who’s wealth was in never quite starving
Would driver or girl ever
say so much as half what their eyes betrayed
before the horse would again trot away
with their fate?