Weekly Drabble #252: Meadow Song (Patreon)

This week's prompt is 'misty meadows' from Framing Device and with it, we get a folk song. Or at least passes for my attempt at a folk song. Enjoy!

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Meadow Song

When the sun shines bright in the meadows of Leid they say,Children of the valley run through the grass, happy to play.They shriek and they cheer as they scamper to and fro,A lovelier place does not exist that they know.

In the meadows of Leid, they say when comes the night,Lovers embrace and frolic beneath the moon’s light.Laughter turns to soft moans and passionate cries,As the stars twinkle down from the gentle night skies

In the meadows of Leid, when autumn turns the leaves red,Through the coy whispering grass, married couples will tread,They smile as they remember happy things from the past,Their love rekindles in the meadow, new vows made unasked.

When winter embraces the meadows and snow turns them white,They stretch to the horizon, a peaceful, picturesque sight.Deer track through the meadows, as foxes hunt and mice sleep,All the secrets of nature, the snow holds and will keep.

Once spring returns to the meadows of Leid and they become green,Morning dew glistens on flowers and in the sun’s light they gleam.A scent of life fills the air like the rebirth of a soul,Making it known the meadows are again welcoming all.

But know when the grey mists of autumn early come calling,And there’s a chill in the air and the light begins falling,Avoid the meadows and stay inside, for your own sake,The meadows give much, but in their turn they will take.

A jilted bride, some will say, still dressed in her gown,Or a traveller, weary and on their way to town.A child, some will insist is what’s there, lost and afraid,But no matter the form it will wear, do not offer aid.

Stay silent and sheltered when the mists crawl from the lands of Leid,You may scoff, dear listener but remember all these words and heed.Those who do not and go into the mists, in groups or alone,Once the fog clears, we are lucky to find cloth and some bones.

A banshee, men whisper, their courage bolstered by ales,A wendigo, the women all say as they knit and trade tales.Ghosts, children gossip as they peek from closed curtains,And see shapes writhe in the mist that beckon and lurk within.

When the mists tighten in and its cries echo with allure and despair,Know that there are far better places to be than to find yourself there.Run if you can, flee fast to your home or your farm,For once the mist touches you, it knows where you are.

The voices, the sobbing and the pleas of the meadows,Slowly but surely, what makes them will start coming close.If it cannot entice with offers of the flesh and good deeds,it will stalk through the grass and shed blood amidst the misty reeds.

The meadows of Leid, they say true, are lovely and calm,They offer wonder and beauty and to the soul are a balm,But nothing lovely in this world is given for free,And the price the meadow mist demands is most bloody.

In the summer season when the fog settles in,When the winter cold eases with mists on the wind,In spring, the days where the rain comes hard and comes fast,And most of all autumn, the meadows reap their repast.