Literature
Ramble
Tall, dark, brooding. Black, raven hair and cool grey eyes. Dreamy.
So said the other village girls when they came, bursting with chatter like so many magpies, to weigh up their wares in our little shop. It was too bad I hadn’t gone to the parade, they said.
There he was, clad from neck to toe in dark leather, atop a valiant dark steed. Heroic. Imposing.
I didn’t bother telling them about the quiet young man who’d come by the back door earlier, to my father’s blacksmith to shod a rather skittish black-coated mare.
I never said a word to them about how I found him sometime later by the well, after the crowds were a