The Ostlers Fate

The wind was a torrent of darkness,
Among the gusty trees.
The moon a ghostly galleon,
Tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road a ribbon of moonlight,
Over the purple moor.
And a highwayman came riding,
Up to the old inn door.
Tim the ostler stood in shadows,
He took one step in retreat.
As a chill and bitter wind,
Made the lightless wicket creak.
With his hair like moldy hay,
And hollow eyes of madness,
For a fleeting moment,
Insanity turned to sadness.
The stable groaned heavy with night.
In darkness Tim watched the stranger.
He already knew what he must do,
As the night blew frigid danger.
He saw the highwayman sense it,
Then refused to see.
He proudly rode to the abode,
As if it could not be.
Tim glared with hateful daggers,
From hiding he mumbled mutters.
At the man with a whip,pulled from his hip,
To tap on tightened shutters.
Returning the whip to his claret coat
The highwayman wistled a tune.
The bolts were freed and Tim could see,
Clear by the light of the moon.
Beauty spilled from the lofty porthole.
Tims madness dared a glance.
At the lovely landlords daughter,
With whom he had no chance.
Red lipped Bess sat in the casement,
Binding both men to her in awe.
She reached from above to the one she loved,
The other she never saw.
Tim narrowed eyes of spiteful hatred.
A passion he knew each day.
He watched the lovers from his cover,
And heard the highwayman say,
"One kiss my bonny sweetheart.
I'm after a prize tonight!
If the kings yellow gold is where I'm told
I'll come to thee by dawns' light.
But if I am pressed sharply,
And harried throughout the day,
I'll come to thee by soft moonlight,
Though hell should bar the way!"
Bess loosed her long raven hair.
Tim watched the robber stroke it.
A scream of longing in his soul,
In darkness he never spoke it.
The highwayman pulled a crimson ribbon,
From her inky midnight locks.
Spurring west,with a smile he left,
On the loney road toward the docks.
Yet still the keeper of horses,
Watched from the darkness afar.
His hate no less as he saw Bess,
Pray to the twinkling stars.
Yes he knew what he would do,
Still he could not pull to duty,
He saw the light within his sight,
Madness mesmerized by beauty.
The lovely Bess dashed soft light,
The dark settled the old inn yard.
The shutters threw again tight and true,
Once more night was locked and barred.
Now alone in his stable home,
Tim stewed but a moment longer.
He did not fold once in the cold.
He let madness make him stronger.
The kings men would take him in.
Perhaps even bring him a feast.
He had plenty of time in his troubled mind.
As insanity pulled Tim east.
All the kings horses and all the kings men,
Met him with quiet distain.
He betrayed the lovers hed grown to hate.
They listened to his pain.
Bess watched a lonely new day dawn,
Her love had not come by noon.
Images burst from the tawny sunset,
Just before the rise of the moon.
When the road was a gypsys' ribbon,
Looping the purple moor,
The kings red coats came marching,
Up to the old inn door.
They said nothing to the landlord.
They drank his ale instead.
Through her window Tim could see,
As they bound Bess to her bed.
They rigged a musket to her side,
Aimed deep into her breast.
In the dark Tim broke apart,
But never did he protest.
Streached before her narrow casement,
Tim watched her watch the night.
Waiting for her loves approach,
The road west within her sight.
The soldiers watched there with her,
And heard as the wind did say,
"I'll come to thee by soft moon light,
Though hell should bar the way!"
Tlot tlot....Did they hear it?
For Tim had heard it well.
Tlot tlot in the darkness.
He saw Bess' bosom swell.
The soldiers took to thier priming.
Tim drew a proud mad breath.
Then her musket shattered the night,
And warned him with her death.
Shock threw back the insanity,
That lived there in the stables.
Like in his dreams he screamed and screamed,
The soldiers shook thier heads disabled.
Tlot tlot back into darkness.
The highwayman fled to the lightless wood.
He did not dare to show he cared,
He did not know who stood.
Unheard were the ostlers screams,
And the landlords mournful cries.
They slayed him in the very room,
Where his lovely daughter died.
They left tim the ostler nothing.
Not gold nor even a feast.
They let him scream and left unseen,
Marching back to the east.
Tim never looked for his hated love
He wailed on the stable floor.
There was no warning with the morning,
As the highwayman stepped through his door.
Now hollowed eyes of madness,
Met saddened eyes of rage.
The one Tim betrayed let him lay,
But did not let him age.
He was left to rot upon that spot,
And the highwayman buried his love in private.
He lay the father next to his daughter,
And cried in the morning quiet.
He knew her life was sacrificed,
For love and nothing less.
Like a beast he thundered east,
And never looked back toward the west.
He found the soldiers still on the road,
And inflicted what damage he could.
But they shot him down on that ground,
And left him in his own blood.
Yet still of a winters night they say,
When the wind is in the trees.
When the moon a ghostly galleon,
Tossed among cloudy seas.
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight,
Looping the purple moors,
A highwayman comes riding,
Up to the old inn doors.
Over the cobbles he clatters,
Into the dark innyard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters,
But all is locked and barred.
He wistles a tune to the window,
And who should be waiting there?
Tis Bess the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a crimson ribbon into long black hair.
And they say the stables are haunted.
By a ghost who is lost in madness.
Yet it seems that when he screams,
The howls are that of sadness

Christy Cole 2004