The Seventh Child
She dances on the cliff's edge as lightning splits the
    sky,
While around her face dark and lightning-edged curls fly.
Her eyes reflect the shine of the sea below;
In her hand, a knife, bright and pitiless as snow.
The trilling patterns of her dance the lightnings do 
    follow.
She is fair as the hunted hind, and far more wild,
But who can say why she dances, the feral seventh child?

She walks with halting steps beside a forest stream,
And seeks ever the eyes and face of one seen in dream.
A rose of gold- the setting sun- blooms within the water,
And stains the flowing ripples with the red of slaughter.
But can she understand this beauty, who is no man's 
    daughter?
Eyes glowing and haunted with a pleading bright and mild,
And who can see her but to pity her, the frail seventh 
    child?

She speaks harsh in ancient tongue, stretches forth a 
    hand,
And the magics of wind and water are hers to command.
She dances out upon the sea, rides the power of the wave,
Tames the hurricane that otherwise would in madness rave,
And sees in the sea-mirror the face of one nothing could 
    save.
Perhaps she weeps, weeps crystal tears moon-white and 
    moon-wild,
But who can say whether she weeps, the fierce seventh
    child?

She sits upon the seashore as the sun descends in burning,
And gazes out upon the waters with longing and with 
    yearning.
Twilight's light across the waves creates a golden path,
Bright as shining swords in battle, calm as aftermath.
She steps on the road to sunset's edge, into a shining 
    bath.
A wind goes sighing by her departing, a cry free and mild,
And who can say who or what welcomes the faring seventh
    child?