Elizabeth's Hill

Broken promises spin a tale

Of love once lost and doomed to fail
Where romance lingers on haunted lips
The candle burns low as blackened wax drips

Her form is perfect and smells of rose
A hint of mother's perfume on afghan throws.
Her's is a mind that has caused blood to spill
Long live the mystery of Elizabeth's Hill.

Standing alone at the top of the rise
Overlooking the valley where the wealthy reside
And curse the eyesore they all wish tore down
Is the home of Elizabeth, a haunt world renowned.

She watches them all as she waits for him
And denies that their love is the deadliest sin.
Rose coloured glasses, a wretched heart,
A life lived in denial is what tore them apart.

His form stands atop the cherrywood stairs
A father, a husband, a lover unpaired.
Each evening at eight, she flies to his arms,
Never meaning to hurt him or cause any harm.

Her form is perfect and smells of rose,
A hint of mother's perfume on afghan throws.
Hers is a mind that has caused blood to spill,
Long live the mystery of Elizabeth's Hill

With wanting arms he embraces her tight,
Holding her close with pure, fierce might.
Losing his sense in the scent of the rose,
Burying his lust beneath afghan throws.

Oh! How the town talked when she came!
A young wild stranger with no family name.
The young doctor and wife with no child of their own,
Offered their family, their love and their home.

Down the stairs on that fateful night,
The doctor and lover were seen by the wife.
Her edge of reason was slowly undone
She made her way to the basement, the way to his gun.

Broken and bleeding still smelling of rose,
Both now sharing the same afghan throws.
Lust and desire were both that night spilled.
Long live the history of Elizabeth's Hill.
                        Natasha Head