"Red Cap"
Tarry and stray
and you fall into his lap
a pillory, a bellylaugh –
for that is the plunge of strumpets.
Down the hatch lie rooms
strewn with wool, stockings
and children’s shoes,
lined with moss and stumpage.
No surprise to hear
the village hiss, complicitous.
Gossips consider it
no mystery how girls
go down, kindling the appetite,
when the wolf asks what you have
under your apron, little mistress,
and you reply –
wine and tarts, old beast,
a ruse, a rosebud.
© 2007 Sarah J. Sloat
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