‘Twas a misty morn by candlelight,
Where porridge was warm on fire bright,
The table was set for the morning sun,
From which labour and farm work would be done.
The door creaked open to the misty morn,
Dewdrops on briars and shrubs adorned,
Then came dawn’s first breath over the valley’s spine,
But not one could see the sun’s full shine.
The misty morn mopped and flopped,
Covering the pasture water topped,
Animals too they shared the toll,
A shimmer of dew upon their stall.
Then came raven, bearer of news,
From where that bird will often choose,
And landed there upon the heath,
In the misty morn he did bequeath:
“A stranger! a stranger on the road!
Through the valley with mist intoed!
Cobbled stones and mossy fens,
A crooked crone from the glens!”
The mist harkened and rolled unchecked,
As the shadows warbled through the vale;
A crooked figure, with a stick,
Did ramble clickedy click.
“Clickedy click! click! click!” raven quirked,
Soon flying off before that which lurked,
“What do you seek O crooked one?
Who travels this misty morn begun?”
A shredded shriek on the mist,
“Well water and grain! I do insist!
Far I have travelled to all fields weened,
Rest I must before they be greened.”
Labour paused, as the farmhand delved,
Before the old well, where magic once dwelled,
“Porridge have I, on the fire by,
Though the mist be thick upon the morn.”
Both well water and grain the crooked one claimed,
As the farmhand peered through the mist untamed,
The clickedy click of a stick unfurled,
As the shape of the crooked one curled.
Her stick planted and a daffodil sprouted,
The promise and beauty of the crooked one undoubted,
As a maiden young now lay down,
Her hair adorned with a flowery crown.
Heavenly she looked with stars in her eyes,
Bathed in a dress of daffodils and butterflies,
His hand he did offer, and his hand she did take,
And the land grew green, finally awake.
