The autumn wind was taking a stand and declaring summer to be over. She put on her best face, scudding thin clouds across the moon, baring trees of their coats, relieving folks of their hats and most of all whipping skirts and dresses around the legs of women daring to disregard her prophetic power of bitter sweetness.
On such a night, one lone figure, thick-knotted scarf, thin jacket, mid-calf skirt and tall leather boots, walking strong, knew where she was going and intending to get there. When she finally arrived she was breathless, heightened. Without speaking everyone knew something had happened. She refused to say but they insisted. “It was the Highway Man.” She gave in. “I saw him.” Trembling, saying no more, she poured red wine and sat at the fire.
They knew she was in love but they couldn’t understand how it came to be so.