When Us Was Wed

When us was wed she turned afraidOf love and me and all things human;Like the shut of a winter's dayHer smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman -More like a little frightened fay.One night, in the Fall, she runned away.
We was wed three years ago now, and I still remember how she was; a beautiful young maid, shy, maybe not forward enough for me. 
Not a day had passed since our marriage when she changed. Less tolerant of me now than she had been before, she hid herself in the house. She smiled no longer, and her eyes were dull. 
It was like Winter had come early; she seemed not like a woman at all, but a faery; hiding from the 'big folk' and fleeing from us. Yet still it was Summer.
It's Autumn now, nearing Winter. Earlier this season she runned away, took flight like a frightened rabbit. We couldn't let that happen - 'tisn't right for a maid to run from her husband and leave him alone, cold in the bed, lonely on the farm. Bad enough that we sleep apart, with a flight of stairs between us. No, we had to bring her back. 

Three Summers

Three Summers since I chose a maid,Too young maybe - but more's to doAt harvest-time than bide and woo.
Three Summers it's been now, three years since I married the little maid. There was not time enough for courtship or to win her love; there's enough to do on a farm with the animals and crops without wasting time netting a lady who'll stand by and watch me work without mucking in herself. No sir! I don't have time to waste. 
This girl... not picked for me, but neither did I take long to pick her. She had little choice in the matter; she was the prettiest of the whole lot, it was no hard choice. 
Was she too young for me to take her? I can't regret it now, even if I wanted to. 
I hope. I hope. 

Author's Note

Author’s Note

The poem The Farmer’s Bride was written by Charlotte Mew in the nineteenth century.

Her poems centre around death, depression and insanity.

I read this poem and, after doing some analysis, decided it had such disturbing implications that it would be a brilliant and fittingly horrific story.

I then thought, ‘but what if the farmer had kept a diary? Or a blog.’

Thus, Autumn Leaves was born.

Please enjoy it and do tell me how it could be improved. I’m always looking to get better at writing.

(As copyright in the UK extends seventy years after the creator’s death, in this case in 1928, the poem is in the public domain. As such, the excerpts are freely used.)