This is the story of a man and a maid,
who each by their nature was very dismayed.
For in truth neither was quite right in the head,
but let’s take our time, for there’s much to be said.
The man wandered the night, the cities, the plains,
Wandering his future by Dullahan’s reins.
He wondered, he wished, he hoped and he prayed
that one night he might find a suitable maid.
But all that he met, man, woman, or child,
Would scream and would run and would leave him reviled.
And each that he met who fled with such dread,
would soon find their body was missing its head.
And so he did wander, through rain and through snow,
And with each drum of hoofbeat he never did know,
Whether he would wander alone now and forever,
Left with no purpose except heads to sever.
The maid wandered the night, the cities, the plains,
Wandering her future by fate’s crimson reins,
She wondered, she wished, she hoped and she planned
That one night she might find a suitable man.
But each that she met, each suitor or gent,
No matter the stories or tales she’d invent,
Would question and ponder and always take note,
Of the curious ribbon that wrapped round her throat.
And so in turn did each pull the thread,
And so in turn off toppled her head,
She’d run and she’d flee and she’d be left exiled,
Wondering if she’d alone always be so reviled.
Into a village she wandered with woe,
The moonlight upon her a solemn white glow,
But under its light she noticed instead,
A man on the floor who was missing his head.
She stared and she wondered and concluded him blessed,
For in his beheading at least he could rest.
She knelt and with ribbon did mend the lost soul,
So at least in his grave he’d be one and whole.
Just as the rider was set to leave town,
He noticed his victim was rejoined with its crown.
The rider felt rage, disgust, and envy,
For if the dead had a head, then why couldn’t he?
He kicked Dullahan and they took off with speed,
The headless rider upon his black steed.
He swore he would find and would sever and rend,
The head of the person behind that cursed mend.
It didn’t take long to spot her alone in the night,
Wandering unaware of the headless dark knight.
She wore a green dress, stood out like a beck,
much like the green ribbon tied round her neck.
The man charged forward and didn’t think twice,
Before severing her neck with a clean lethal slice.
Her head fell to the ground with a cry and a wallow,
But to the man’s shock did her body not follow.
She knelt and she sighed and she picked up her head,
And secured it back on with that lovely green thread.
Then she looked at the man with wonder, not dread,
and asked, “Shall we, Sir Knight, go find you a head?”
And so the maid who could mend met the man who could sever,
And they wandered and haunted together forever.
Vera Veiss writes in California, USA. She specializes in horror, mystery, fantasy, and tragedy.
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