You don’t know her, but can’t you tell?
That’s her beside the wishing well.
Waist-long hair as black as coal,
In deep blue eyes you’ll loose your soul.
The dress she wears is silver true
With golden drops of amber dew.
Her cloak is of the blackest night:
Heavy, soft, it fits her right.
About her neck you will find
A moonstone rose of purest kind.
Her weapon a staff a quarter high
Set with sapphire, crescent, and the sky.
Silver slippers adorn her feet;
Come closer, she might be sweet.
Mystery abounds in her voice;
Will she give you care or choice?
If you should become her friend,
She will stand by you till the end.
So come closer to the well;
If you fall in she will not tell.
Copyright © 2003 by D. M. Purnell
