The Morning Star

She was sat, perched, on the edge of a cloud.
Plaiting her hair as she sung.
Songs of beauty, of mystery, of lovers.

She didn’t see me, face turned upwards to her voice.
I climbed a tree, sat silent in the highest boughs,
Listened to her voice serenade the stars.

Her voice was tired, sad,
She sang of the love she would never have,
Alone on her cloud with only the Lady Moon to talk to.

In desperation, I fetched a ladder and climbed.
On the top rung I stood, looked upwards for her smile.
But her cloud was as far away as ever.

I tried to catch hold of a shooting star as it passed,
But its tail was slippery, smooth,
And my grasping fingertips couldn’t keep hold.

I found a rope, and sent it soaring up over the moon.
But the moon shrugged her shoulders,
And the rope just came tumbling down.

And all the while, her voice filled my ears with her pain.
I longed to climb up and bring her down with me.
But she just smiled and shook her head playfully.

She sang and she sang and she sang.
And as she sang she plaited and plaited and plaited.
Until her braid fell into my outstretched hands.

Her hair was braided with moonlight and stardust
And tied with cloud’s glow and midnight’s tickle.
It burned with her beauty, but was icy in my palms.

I climbed and climbed ever upwards,
My hands blistering on the silver rope.
And up above, she watched me, and waited.

By dawn I stood on her cloud, facing my star.
She smiled in the sunlight, took my hand.
And as morning came we walked into the sky.