nothing could be done about the ring
Nothing could be done about the ring,
lost in red water. No glint got through.
When the wind came up,
he knelt down in the shivering weeds
and he prayed, felling his warm
hands pressed together.
Nobody was here but it had just occurred to him
to wonder about it. The wind meant storm.
Then he saw a head bouncing through the trees,
a tunicked body bouncing on a horse,
a knight. The trail was a slippery staircase
that looked at him with muddy eyes.
The ring remained behind
to be a reminder of a creepy change.