THE WHITE FROCKED MAID
The peeling sign beside the door
declared her place of residence
a simple girl and proud to bear
a birth which knew no social laws
untouched as yet by consequence
Beneath her crafted counterpane
she lay there stilled in reverie
in places where confusion lies
until with rhythmic grace she rose
in soft half tones of morning light.
With spectral ease she crossed the room
to lean against the mullion stone
and gaze beyond towards the mill
where logs were piled in readiness
and as the wood on lathe is turned,
appreciation took on form
advancing her maturity.