A Pure Woman, cheated and left. Faithful
to her core. Her chaste promise corrupted.
Rosy of cheek, pure of skin, lips blossomed,
Wessex Eve sent like a lamb to her fate
by kin who professed tender love for her.
Gentle Tess, soft cheeks, rough labouring hands,
her Angel was but a flawed guardian
and failed to protect his loyal lone flock.
Only in Sorrow did Tess find her truth,
a doomed boy in a marmalade coffin.
A rural girl, dairy maid abandoned,
discarded at that lonely Flintcomb-Ash.
A pure woman sullied, cream turned crimson,
forsaken, innocence was her downfall.
Sweet Tess, alone on a cool stone altar.