Those Lost Noble Ladies

I love to imagine
noble ladies
of olden times,
burning on pyres
for God
or waiting
patiently
for death
in chilly castles,
like Joan of Arc
at Rouen,
like Mary,
Queen of Scots
at Fotheringay.

Their loveliness,
frozen in time,
caught like
doomed roses
kissed by frost.

Their pale,
cold arms
reach
across
centuries
and touch,
but cannot
satisfy me.

You, Lady,
are here
and warm
and now,
your arms
more fetching,
your heart
more noble,
the living blood
of you more
desirable
than any
ghostly lover.

Let us create
a new legend,
together.

The bards
may sing it
or not.

Only
to live it out
matters.
- mce