He took her for his second wife
as if she wouldn’t care,
that second wife would be enough,
as if first wife would shrug and turn
back to her broideries and her bairns.
He told her that he loved her,
and when first wife, in her jealousy
as was surely only right and just,
cast the spell that sent her fluttering,
bright butterfly-wings beating,
over the stormy sea,
beyond the reach of prince and druid,
he followed her, or at least he tried,
or at least he said he tried.
And when he took her back again,
years later when she had a life
as someone he had never met,
and found a love who cherished her
and kept her by his side,
he never saw how many lives
by his golden hand lay blighted,
never a frown creased his golden brow.
She followed him with backward glances,
leaving husband and her child,
because her prince would have it so,
and being golden and beautiful,
that is how the story fell out.
Such has ever been the way of the world,
and probably always will be.