The Wild Child
Her feet were stained with the dreams of what earth she had walked across. Her eyes were full of stars. She might have been a queen's daughter or a crofter from some old, soaked shore; he could never tell, and never did ask. He went with her into the fields of lost forest and peat. He learned to dance with her the way skies danced, circling round the oldest truth.
She had rings on every finger and tin bells in her voice. She had hair redder than his heart beating fast for her. And when she was gone, she was gone. And she never came back again.
But three times three months later a child's cry woke him from a dream of ravens over white tides. He found the infant lying swaddled in a rowan cradle on his doorstep and an old woman walking away towards the dawn. She dragged a shadow like it was a sack of dreams unlit by moons or promises. She did not listen to him calling, calling, his voice and the child's mingling, both of them lost this side of wild love.
The child only grew up to be yet another farmer. But oh, his eyes.