The Sunday Poem: Maid Marian
Oh Marian maid, queen of May, born a shepherd girl!
What have they done? Your flock is gone,
Your ballad’s of a different world.
Once you stood alone, you know – you were not just a foil,
But instead you played the central maid
As Yorkshire festivals you toiled.
And then dependency came in, for propriety’s sake,
For maids alone cannot be shown
Lest women proper place mistake.
French, then Saxon, poor and back to Norman blood,
You stood apart and pined your heart
For loves you never needed much.
Your love, your boy, your shepherd boy, now lord made rough outlaw.
Your good French name Leaford became,
And you an archery prize for all?
From play to film and back again, your shape a-shift and formless raw,
And now you’re dead as roles are shed
And actors move through dialogue.
Do you wander alleys now, and shop at big box stores?
Do you worry mortgages, or giving to the poor?
Your ballad flows and we all know that stories grow and change and more;
You may have spent some time with bad boy Robin Hood
But given time we’ll see the shepherdess back home in her own wood.
Marian is always there in thought, be she queen of May or not.
