The Mussel Picker's Tale

if you have the precious time take enough to read my rhyme for if you do, then you will see a place close-hearted in my memory. a crescent beach of golden sand slopes gently from an emerald land to kiss a quiet sunlit sea where soaring gulls cry plaintively. on that lonely beach there stands a ruined castle that commands a slender strait of still water dividing one land from another Across that narrow gleam of sea there lies an island thick with trees where stillness broods and darkness weaves a hush of watchful mystery. when I was there one summer morn picking mussels from blue ocean, I looked up from my work to see a young woman standing over me. fiery hair and emerald eye lissome form and lovely smile she greeted me, and shyly asked if she could have some of my catch. she offered pay for what I had I shrugged and said I would be glad to let her have as many of my mussels she could carry off. she smiled thanks and with her skirt she formed a pouch in which I put a good large portion of my catch from my overflowing canvas bag. and when her skirts were brimming full she coyly asked for just one more I looked down in the bag for one: when I looked up, I was alone. then I fled in fear, having found not a single footprint around the sand where she and I had met nor any hint she'd come and left. but later when I pulled my catch from beached row-boat I split the bag and on the spill of mussels found a single solid silver crown. I've gone back many times since then to pick mussels, each time remembering to leave a portion of what I take for a lovely unseen red-haired maiden, just in case.