The Charmer (Poetry)

To be sure, he was charming — a wild gypsy rogue
with a glint in his eye and a soft Irish brogue
that lulled away reason — he yarned through the night
and, spellbound, she listened, her face like a light

as he told of his travels — the sights he had seen —
the people he’d met and the places he’d been
and he promised he’d take her and show her the world —
words smooth as the grit which an oyster had pearled.

He wove her a fantasy, drew her a dream
and she waited with confidence, patient, serene
for the day he would come for her, knock on her door
and whisk her away to some far-distant shore.

The sun shone regardless, each day turned to night
and the path remained empty — no message, no sight
of her disappeared lover, his baby inside
kicked soft as she fretted and hopelessly cried.

Though the boy was as blond as his father was dark —
eyes blue as the sea with a far-away spark
that flashed now and then — she perceived with alarm
that his heart would turn fickle, his voice grow to charm.

So she put him in care and set off on her own
across deserts and mountains, adventured alone
and followed her dreams ’til the day that she died —
still in love with the charmer and knowing he’d lied.