It's been centuries since the last great Jane met her end
At the tender age of just seventeen.
Nine days a Queen,
Ended with the crash of an axe at Tower Green,
Spilling her dreams into the gutters near the scaffold
And soaking into the straw she had knelt on.
Executed for signing her name.
But today marks the birth of a greater Jane,
Today she turns seventeen,
An intelligent beauty of Yorkshire,
Modesty entangled by auburn curls with wit,
Her charms that beguiled my heart.
Her face shines with her angelic loveliness
A smile from her lips, a petal of her kindness.
And lustrous blue eyes stuck in reverie.
Her rare primrose cheeks blushing with her unparalleled beauty.
And flowing elegantly from her sweet head, a waterfall of auburn,
Whirlpools of gorgeous curls,
Cascading down, over her delicate shoulder, and down to her bosom.
And around her neck, a clavicle barricade, gracefully shaped.
She wishes to be different,
Living in the shadow cast by her sister and orange blondes,
She shines out with her beauty and wit.
Opinions and convictions
Articulated with such charming flair
That every word makes my love flourish in her radiance.
I'd sit there waiting for Jane.
Waiting like a lost dog, outside in a thunderous squall,
For that magical "Inbox (1)" that makes my heart soar.
And as I read the poetry of her response,
I wish to embrace her in my warmth,
Gently kissing her blushing cheeks, her noble neck, her lips, while supporting the back of her head in my hand,
Running my fingers through her silky sea of curls, the colour of falling autumn leaves.
Then whispering 'I love you' into her ear.