By C.T. Bowyer
© Alwyne Ashweth 2018
The shadows rose like giants on the grass.
Dark fingers, inexact in shape
But clearly reaching claws.
Crawling, as the Sun, weary from its day,
Raced eagerly to its night’s repose.
Sinking deeply in the cool green blanket of the forest.
In his eyes, they were her hands.
Smooth as marble,
But warped and pitted under Death’s dull tool.
Pale as the Moon,
But ever more to see its serene attitude.
And whiter still.
He rose from the hill,
And strode towards those outstretched arms,
Wishing for their limbs to soften at his touch
And curl around his body
As they had lain so many times before,
On Summer’s flowery earth, and sandy shore.
To feel their love alive inside them,
(Threading soul to soul in a seemingly endless bond)
Was life itself.
Nothing yet outshines this human Sun.
But even stars must die,
No matter how immortal they might seem.
And as these, died the love they shared.
Slaughtered, as her life was snatched from him,
Cruelly filched from their velvet purse,
Protected with vehemence,
But open to the thieving hand of illness.
And question God he might.
From his everlasting blessing;
She white in the sunlight,
Yet shaded here and there with bright harlequin.
To the altar again in sombre black,
There to part until death take him.
Church to church.
Love to death.
Dour in his reminiscence, he skirted the forest edge,
Following the tree-line back to town.
In the dusk-light, their ominousness clouded his thoughts;
Dark watchers, guiding his path.
To stray would mean a turbid night in the woods,
Large, and filled with the dark imaginings of a distressed mind.
Even now they were gathering.
A snapping branch,
Trampled by the monstrous foot of the black-mouthed ogre.
Yet almost silent as they stalked their prey.
Closer now, behind him.
Ready to feel a hair-backed hand close around his neck,
Lifting him to greet her.
The Moon was already high in the heavens,
Risen covertly in the shade of the solar cloak.
Now it shone
With a brilliance reserved for cloudless Summer nights.
A starry sky one August
Seeming almost as Day.
The breeze spoke not at all that Night.
It was cool, but certainly pleasant enough for love.
Embracing by a silver stream,
Caring but for each other.
And then they had walked
Upon her inclination to find a source,
Where the earth gave birth to a river.
She said it would be a magical place.
A place to fall asleep and dream
Of things that have been and that are yet to come.
So they had walked by the ever narrowing waters
Beneath a weeping willow canopy.
And in the first-light they saw the place;
A tiny fissure,
Yet issuer of enough water to make an Ocean.
So they slept,
Shielded from the moorland winds by their love;
The most powerful thing in the world.
And as his thoughts had led him down roads of the past,
His feet had been leading him to her.
He was at her graveside again,
A place too frequently visited as of late.
Kneeling, he spoke with her for a while,
Then slept at her side until the Dawn.