Trampled Rose- Robert Plant and Alison Kraut
The moon rode high above the willow trees of down by the
bayous. Humidity was sticky and heavy in the summer air. A caravan rode along,
wheels clacking on the jagged makeshift roads. The horses clopped along,
sweating as they rode at a brisk pace. Lanterns swayed above the hitch on the
cart, frightening some of the chirping frogs by the swampy banks.
The stained glass windows of the wagon shone bright with
buttery light, making the dull, blue and grey and green of the swamps appear
even more ominous than before. The rickety frame creaked as a corner was
turned.
Half parted wine colored curtains hid the face of the woman
within the cart. The only thing one could see should they be standing by the
street side would be long, elegant fingers clutching a pendant resting on the
bosom of the lady. And opposite of her was another woman, gnarled fingers
intertwined with the other woman’s petite hand and the hint of a wretched
looking face.
The swamp water sloshed as the shadowy man driving the cart
dove into a small section of bog to cross over to the banks. Even outside the
cabin of the carriage the pair’s laughter could be heard. One was a hearty
chuckle and the other feminine and endearingly obnoxious.
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