"Mary and the Horse Thief" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "Jamaica Inn")

I could be said to be

falling in love

with a horse thief,

in spite of myself.

Yet, I don't - won't - refuse to - call it

"falling in love".

I am simply a woman,

and he is a man,

and something inside of me

is responding to something

about the man.

That is all.

And I try to ignore

the fact that his hands

are just like his brother's -

the hands of a murderer.

The hands of a murderer.


Seventeen years:

That's how long

my mother spent

as a widow.

Our little farm in Helford -

it was the only life

that I had ever known.

But the crops were failing;

the animals were dying.

When we buried Nell, the faithful old mare,

I watched

steel turn into shattering china,

before my young eyes:

witnessed my mother's first,

last and only

serious illness -

nursed her through

her final days -

reluctantly promising...


And so the promise - to go to my aunt.

I honoured my word.


And the moors,

so bleak and wild -

the landscape fills me with

a twisted, distorted

form of love.

So unlike my love, so pure,

for the river - for Helford - for

my people. My home.


And there it stands:

grey, solitary,

sinister and secretive,

the inn that bars its doors

to passing travellers -

not that many would wish,

or dare...


Yes, I could be said

to be falling in love

with my horse thief,

but I choose

to use

different words

instead.