The Rebirth of Reynardine, about a misunderstood outlaw in the vein of Robin Hood, reawakens and re-envisions the mysterious werefox found in English song. In my tale, the heroine is his only equal.
lyrics
The Rebirth of Reynardine
No snare will pin me down, but there are those who tried;
they floundered behind me, blown off the mountainside.
At dusk, a bareback rider bestrides a flighty mare;
The summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.
The woodland’s in her hair, the woodland’s in her hair;
the summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.
Her lurcher tracks my scent; her skittish mount rears back;
the blackbird’s call betrays me. “Take off your mask,” she says.
There’s something of the gypsy about that girl, I swear:
the taste of her body; the eloquence of her stare.
The eloquence of her stare, the eloquence of her stare,
the taste of her body, the eloquence of her stare.
When she and I were fox cubs in a tumbling tug-of-war,
ancient oaks inhaled our laughter, and we their gentle sighs.
I want to drink the sunrise in—to feel her breath
once more against my skin—for Heaven
is the dawn reflected in her eyes.
No song will pin me down, but there are those who tried:
balladeers and minstrels; they call me Reynardine.
My tired yew tree limbs seek the coolness of the earth;
this covert’s her cathedral of renewal and rebirth.
Renewal and rebirth, renewal and rebirth.
This covert’s her cathedral of renewal and rebirth.
The woodland’s in her hair, the woodland’s in her hair;
the summer’s on her lips, and the woodland’s in her hair.
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