hope – Page 2 – three good words

pen 3

…yours ever, &c
an abrupt ending
opening words
pouring out in a sudden wave –
what madness is this?
to deny, to refuse
to insist on such needless things
as countenance, propriety
We must know our place…
but what is that
in the face of something so divine
as genuine, true, complete feeling?
they may be young, yes,
but not, to his mind, daft beyond decree
there was truth in this
and beauty beyond what any mortal could reach.

quick, quick
cut paper on surface
pen scratching ink
curves, loops, dashes
written in haste
soaked with feeling
demands, pleas
hoping, not jesting
trying to appease
papers waxed closed
an address written, posted
there, there
it is done
it is written
she must understand
the truth, the beauty
of such spontaneous overflow of feeling.

yet the torment begins
the second the envelope is sealed, posted
that torturous patience
of long hours waiting
for all to be read, understood
and hopefully, hopefully
answered, agreed
to continue the private, silent communication
where all the tools given are ink, paper
memory, imagination
and far too much feeling recollected in tranquility.

and thus it arrives
the letter
hastily opened, outside, far
hidden away from the curious
the nosy
young feet walking
young hands turning pages, paper
touched by others, close, known
young eyes reading, re-reading
reading once more
You must… You cannot…
half daze, half delirium, all delight
searching in every word
all the fields of meaning
until a call demands obedience
there are duties, all and one,
that must be followed.

and there it is, a clock chimes
it is time to visit
the one to whom communication
is deemed legitimate
not, in fact, the other
whose words lay pressed lightly
tightly against the young breast.

but no, alas
no one stands waiting
there is no need to play the proper lady
there is time yet to sit in plush seats, reading
what none must know
those felt words written
mapping what lies only
between a you, a me,
and countless yours ever, &c
that most intimate of privacy
daring thoughts, heartfelt feelings
quiet wishes, hidden dreams

I can… I will… I must…
hand-written
as if spoken from mouth to ear
now held and seen, repeated
in most natural light
falling through windows, glowing in trees
until the sun sets to darkness
brightened by the warmth of a flame

a night, a silence
filled with hope for the morrow
heartbeats young, doubting, certain
waiting with joy and fear
mixed to one sensation
true, beautiful, free.

from the east
a wind, alive, singing
sweeps through the forests,
unknown, unheaded
leaves shivering, golden-green
branches swaying in a quiet roar
a sky-filled sea.

two wanderers
walking in shadows, deep
the moon above
voluptuous, full, and bright;
in silence, side by side
their pace is steady
within the blues and greys
of ghostly light
sticks on stone, soil
where the climb is far too steep.

woods 500pxdotcom

a cottage, large
stands silent, bright
at the edge of wooded darkness
where the wanderers stop
the taller one knocks.

the door slides open,
an old man speaks
forehead glistening in the firelight.
a question, an answer
a quiet exchange,
the door opens wider
warmth and scents and voices
and they enter with sighs, relieved.

like others eating, drinking,
some looking, speaking
a table is given
with food, steaming
rice and eel, and stews,
vegetables, soup
and cool, fresh beer.

eating in silence to reach their fill
they speak no word
nor raise a glass, one to the other
yet in a flare of fire
black and silver, hidden
flash bright
revealing hilt and scabbard –
all of which the old man sees.

the platters empty
the cups refilled,
the taller pays, nodding
when asked if they have eaten their fill.

back at the fire
the coinage, bright
clearly curved, recognised
the old man knows, delighted
but to be sure,
he bites each one.
after all are bitten
there is no doubt
the winds have risen,
the tides have changed
the time has come.

in the room, received
mats fresh like grass
mattresses unrolled, candle lamps
a small coal stove
for the old man knows
they who have come must never be cold.

stealth tempered with time
the old man hides
parts a crevice, and sees in light
the two who came
with promises engraved
in hilt and scabbard
black and silver, clear and bright.

and the old man slips
swiftly, swiftly to his wife
whispers fiercely what he knows
the winds have risen,
the tides have changed
the black and silver, flashing white.

it is now, it is now
he dances, almost
joyous to live so long
to see and know
what had long been spoken
now it was just to wait
for the first gong.

and the wife smiles
nodding, disbelieving
convinced of folly
yet indulges with patience:
till the first gong promised
the old man must curtail his praise

and so he does
and the morning dawns
where hooded and silent
the wanderers depart,
but the old man stands
at the edge of darkness,
smiling, certain
that the winds have risen
that the time has come
against all odds
for he had seen what lay
in black and silver, promised, engraved
clear in the firelight.