With The Moon Upon Her Brow

The time had come for her crowning,
Crowning as queen of spring.
She rode through the wood upon a mare,
Milk-white mare, to meet her king.

Her head was high, her posture straight,
Her eyes causing all the trees to bow.
Her face and her gown shone with light,
As she rode with the moon upon her brow.

Wild and grave her sweet young pale face,
Cloudy the hair that flowed on her shoulders,
Glittering like diamond the gown all about her,
And like swan-feathers her hands, though colder.

Only her eyes held color or spark of life,
Glittering green as emerald or as jade.
They shone the green of the spring night about her,
Like moonlight on the sea's water laid.

Her face was motionless and grave,
Her hands firm as a command to bow,
As she rode the horse with her jeweled reins,
As she rode with the moon upon her brow.

She came to the clearing where he stood,
Her king with long red hair and with grace
Etched into the slightest movement of his hands,
Etched into the way he stood, his face.

She dismounted from the horse, and paced to him.
He looked deep into her glittering eyes.
There came a small sound, some small movement,
As when the hare before the hunter dies.

And her white gown was splashed with blood,
While her eyes glowed a deeper, brighter green.
All about the glade, the trees bowed down,
To their lunar-haired, lunar-browed young queen.

Her face was as wild as a wildling tree,
Her hands clasped before her, shaking slightly now,
As she looked motionless upon the dead,
As she stood with the crescent moon upon her brow.