—a 17th-century fictional romance in verse
When Cromwell rode through war-torn lands,
and kings were weighed by common hands,
In Mosborough, where shadows fall,
Stood proud and still the old stone Hall.
The year was sixteen fifty-three,
The realm in flux, yet you loved me.
A scythesmith’s son, my hands were scarred,
But your heart saw past iron hard.
Your father, lord of moss and field,
With banners gold and manor seal’d,
Had sworn no child of forge or flame
Would ever speak his daughter’s name.
But you, in silks of midnight thread,
Would steal away when stars had spread,
To meet beneath the moon’s pale eye
Where Moss Brook ran so soft, so shy.
The smithy glowed with copper light,
As sparks would dance into the night.
You watched me work with quiet pride—
Though duty pulled, you would not hide.
At Mosborough Hall, the tapestries
Hung heavy with old fealties.
Yet in the stillness of your room,
You dreamed not of a lord’s perfume—
But soot and sweat, a hammer’s ring,
And love that dared defy a king.
You wore no crown, nor I a sword,
But oaths were made without a word.
We’d walk through Plumley’s secret wood,
Where none but us and blackbirds stood.
You kissed me there, your fingers laced,
And time itself forgot to race.
The war would end, the peace would pale,
But still you came, despite travail.
Though history turns and power shifts,
It cannot touch where true love lifts.
And now, though centuries have flown,
And moss has thickened over stone,
I feel you still in morning air,
Your voice a hush, forever there.
The Mosborough One-Place Study 