Steven Hunley
10-23-2013, 01:08 PM
Gallows Pole- an excerpt. ( inspired by Alfred Noyes' poem the Highwayman)
Down the road half a mile was a stone house with a thatched roof. There was a wall between it and the road, behind the house a rose garden and a well. Behind that was an oak with some magpies sitting in its branches. Fields, once rich from tender care, now lay fallow and empty on both left and right, and green rolling hills in the distance completed the picture. The duke’s lands surrounded the farm on all sides like a trap.
In the main room were the fireplace and the hearth. Only a table and a rocking chair sat there. Most of the furniture had been sold to pay rent. An old clock sat on the mantle. A woman sat alone rocking and knitting. The few sounds were the clock ticking, the chair creaking, the fire crackling and the two needles clicking between her hands. A black and white kitten played with the other end of the ball of yarn silently like a mime. It was as if the woman was waiting for something. Rocking and knitting and waiting, with patience her only companion.
Her hair had been dark but age tinted it with wisps of silver. She wore a black dress. White lace graced the cuffs, hem and collar. She’d surrounded her throat with a black velvet choker and a yellowed ivory cameo in the front. The image carved thereon was the head of a beautiful young girl cut with perfect proportions. It was her in her youth. Now she employed it to hide her wrinkled neck.
Her beauty was now displayed in the intricate designs of her knitting. Her skills to elicit sighs from others, both men and women, worked now by her fingers instead of her face.
Suddenly the magpies all cocked their heads and looked towards the road. A lone rider approaching. The woman heard hoof beats drawing closer. Old eyes instantly glittered and suddenly looked twenty years younger. The girl on the choker; reborn in an instant.
The woman sat up and reached for her stick, then tapped her way to the door and onto the porch. She smelled heather and the new mown hay of late summer. She heard someone tying a horse to the wall by the gate when it whinnied. Then she heard the steps in the gravel path to her door draw closer and closer, one after the other. She took one measured pace nearer the doorway.
“It’s me, Johnny,” a man’s voice said warmly, “I’ve come home to you, Mother.”
When the woman heard the voice close enough she dropped her stick and put out her arms.
John stood on the gravel below but towered over his mother. They embraced. Her arms reached up and her fingers carefully searched through his hair. It was still as fine and curly as when he was a child.
Her fingers continued to look, and wandered down to his jaw. It was rough, she could tell, but it was what she expected. The tall boy that had left her three years ago had returned whole, and now was a man.
“You’ll not be kissing me, young man, until after you’ve shaved yourself proper.”
“Yes, Mother, I will.”
She sighed and he felt her chest heave. Stretching up, she gave him a kiss on his cheek. It tasted of salt.
That day in Surrey dandelions grew between the stones. Rows of green alfalfa bent together in the quickening wind of late afternoon. Watching magpies took flight and disappeared. Cloud shadows raced over the fields both fertile and fallow exhibiting the quick magic of nature.
But, for the mother and child having their reunion... time stood still.
***
Any poetry out there inspires you Lit Netters?
http://youtu.be/e7Y-VBD0kRI Lorenna McKennitt The Highwayman
Down the road half a mile was a stone house with a thatched roof. There was a wall between it and the road, behind the house a rose garden and a well. Behind that was an oak with some magpies sitting in its branches. Fields, once rich from tender care, now lay fallow and empty on both left and right, and green rolling hills in the distance completed the picture. The duke’s lands surrounded the farm on all sides like a trap.
In the main room were the fireplace and the hearth. Only a table and a rocking chair sat there. Most of the furniture had been sold to pay rent. An old clock sat on the mantle. A woman sat alone rocking and knitting. The few sounds were the clock ticking, the chair creaking, the fire crackling and the two needles clicking between her hands. A black and white kitten played with the other end of the ball of yarn silently like a mime. It was as if the woman was waiting for something. Rocking and knitting and waiting, with patience her only companion.
Her hair had been dark but age tinted it with wisps of silver. She wore a black dress. White lace graced the cuffs, hem and collar. She’d surrounded her throat with a black velvet choker and a yellowed ivory cameo in the front. The image carved thereon was the head of a beautiful young girl cut with perfect proportions. It was her in her youth. Now she employed it to hide her wrinkled neck.
Her beauty was now displayed in the intricate designs of her knitting. Her skills to elicit sighs from others, both men and women, worked now by her fingers instead of her face.
Suddenly the magpies all cocked their heads and looked towards the road. A lone rider approaching. The woman heard hoof beats drawing closer. Old eyes instantly glittered and suddenly looked twenty years younger. The girl on the choker; reborn in an instant.
The woman sat up and reached for her stick, then tapped her way to the door and onto the porch. She smelled heather and the new mown hay of late summer. She heard someone tying a horse to the wall by the gate when it whinnied. Then she heard the steps in the gravel path to her door draw closer and closer, one after the other. She took one measured pace nearer the doorway.
“It’s me, Johnny,” a man’s voice said warmly, “I’ve come home to you, Mother.”
When the woman heard the voice close enough she dropped her stick and put out her arms.
John stood on the gravel below but towered over his mother. They embraced. Her arms reached up and her fingers carefully searched through his hair. It was still as fine and curly as when he was a child.
Her fingers continued to look, and wandered down to his jaw. It was rough, she could tell, but it was what she expected. The tall boy that had left her three years ago had returned whole, and now was a man.
“You’ll not be kissing me, young man, until after you’ve shaved yourself proper.”
“Yes, Mother, I will.”
She sighed and he felt her chest heave. Stretching up, she gave him a kiss on his cheek. It tasted of salt.
That day in Surrey dandelions grew between the stones. Rows of green alfalfa bent together in the quickening wind of late afternoon. Watching magpies took flight and disappeared. Cloud shadows raced over the fields both fertile and fallow exhibiting the quick magic of nature.
But, for the mother and child having their reunion... time stood still.
***
Any poetry out there inspires you Lit Netters?
http://youtu.be/e7Y-VBD0kRI Lorenna McKennitt The Highwayman