Lost Little Dove

Lavender fields graze the ocean

With recently cut stems

That signify the Celts nearby

Their lasses almost gems.

 

But the ocean hides a secret,

A ship fast approaching

With men on board ready to fight

The wind never slowing.

 

They hunted a man named Selby

That left them long ago

For his love of a Celtic girl;

Now they live in Glasgow.

 

They soon had a giggly daughter

Named Koulmia for peace.

She had glittering golden locks

And eyes the shade of leaves.

 

She first spotted the looming ships

The metal weapons glint

From the mid-afternoon sunlight

That held a blood red tint.

 

While she raced to tell her village,

The invaders struck sand,

Gathering flint and stone before

Making their way on land.

 

Yet one man spotted the blonde lass

And snuck after her instantly,

Lurking between the grain crops,

Spying for some frailty.

 

But in her hurry Koulmia

Wandered through the unknown

Where pine trees reached across the sky

And light comes from moonstone.

 

When the child fell old limbs

The spy grabbed her cut arm

And threw her over his shoulder

Without causing much harm.

 

“My name is Fritjof,” he said,

His accent cold and raw,

Cutting off Koulmia’s struggles.

Fritjof picked up his claw.

 

They continued along the path,

Exiting the thick drafts;

Night had fallen but light still shined

From bonfires and bright blasts.

 

The invaders had still arrived

With little resistance;

They pursued and captured Selby

Over the short distance.

 

The village was punished by them

With flames and cruel laughter

As the Celts burned down to the bone

In front of the crafter.

 

Fritjof brought his captive down to

The massive cremation,

Ignoring her broken grieving

That could fill a basin.

 

All those living boarded the ship.

Selby searched for his lamb;

He found chains on her and Fritjof

Leading her like a ram.

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