Mary And The Horse Thief Poem by Paula M. Puddephatt

Mary And The Horse Thief



I could be said to be
falling in love
with a horse thief,
in spite of myself.
Yet, I don't - won't - refuse to - call it
'falling in love'.
I am simply a woman,
and he is a man,
and something inside of me
is responding to something
about the man.
That is all.
And I try to ignore
the fact that his hands
are just like his brother's -
the hands of a murderer.
The hands of a murderer.

Seventeen years:
That's how long
my mother spent
as a widow.
Our little farm in Helford -
it was the only life
that I had ever known.
But the crops were failing;
the animals were dying.
When we buried Nell, the faithful old mare,
I watched
steel turn into shattering china,
before my young eyes:
witnessed my mother's first,
last and only
serious illness -
nursed her through
her final days -
reluctantly promising...

And so the promise - to go to my aunt.
I honoured my word.

And the moors,
so bleak and wild -
the landscape fills me with
a twisted, distorted
form of love.
So unlike my love, so pure,
for the river - for Helford - for
my people. My home.

And there it stands:
grey, solitary,
sinister and secretive,
the inn that bars its doors
to passing travellers -
not that many would wish,
or dare...

Yes, I could be said
to be falling in love
with my horse thief,
but I choose
to use
different words
instead.

Monday, February 24, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: book
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inspired by Daphne du Maurier's 'Jamaica Inn'
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