Beatrice (Flame Girl)

Second of my 'Les Femmes Tragiques' quartet. Beatrice is representative of Summer. The moral of this poem is 'don't burn your bridges.'

 

Out in the ocean alone in the swells,

A stoic volcano sits burning.

And on it the tiniest house can be seen,

Lived in by a couple of yearning.

 

The couple just wanted a child of their own,

Someone to care for, to love.

Then almost as though the volcano were listening,

One day a child came from above.

 

Out of the lava a baby girl crawled,

With a scream that could pierce through the night.

The man climbed the mountain to see what it was,

And was met with the strangest of sights.

 

A beautiful girl that was made of flame,

Was sat in a patch of burnt grass.

He led her home and gave her a name,

And many years came to pass.

 

The young woman was sat in her room made of glass,

And had tired of the couples devotion.

They doted and coddled her to such an extent,

That she dreamt of escape o’er the ocean.

 

She waited one day till her parents were out,

And started a fire on the rug.

Ran down to the pier where the boat could be found,

Feeling guilty but equally smug.

 

As the boat left the harbour she looked back behind her,

good riddance, she said to the Isle.

She remembered how dad had said sailing was dangerous,

‘Watch me now’ she thought with a smile.

 

When all of a sudden she thought she smelt smoke,

Screamed as she looked to her feet.

The timber of the boat was now slowly burning,

To the Isle she must surely retreat.

 

 

 

She reached for the sails to change their direction,

But they caught aflame in a second.

As the ship slowly started to sink in the water,

She cried and she yelled and she beckoned.

 

Steam started to rise with a bubbling hiss,

In an instant the young girl was dead.

Extinguished for making a stupid mistake,

She forever shall rest on the seabed.

 

RIP

Beatrice Brimstone

1334-1352