My mother gathered me on her knee
and oh the stories i would hear
“The prince slay’d the beast his eyes white
and strained, his inevitable end was near”
“The fair damsel had long golden hair
her face as pale as snow.
The prince took home the beautiful maid”
of course knighthood would be bestowed.
They would wander the soft green hills together
wanting soon to be wed,
They softly reached the large wooden door
And drank from the pool of red.
Oh how merry they’d seem as man and wife
with his dark hair and her light skin.
Mother closed the book, the light turned off
and my slumber enclosed within.
I wandered the soft green hills alone
recalling a story once told
Of princes and dragons with golden flare
my mind once easy to mould.
Dead sheep from a wolf’s mouth i pass
the preacher stood in my midst
i walked right by, not a word to spare
his white strained eyes i did resist.
As i passed the church where grass once grew
dark graves, and candle lit light
but not a glance i threw to its golden prince
not awed in it’s holy sight.
A spin on a smilar William Blake Poem
