#and was like weeping like i see the clouds and the sunbeams and they feel like angels lol

[opens-up-4-nobody]

I'm walking. Fast. The world is tilted. There's green peaking up from flat gray. Short, stubby moss. Like an ooze. Like the sidewalk is compressing it sideways. Persistent even in a concrete jungle. This little thing. This tiny thing. Reaching up toward the sun from under trampling feet. Toward a distant star. And I'm walking, but I'm light through a prism. Splitting seven different directions. A billion and a billion and a billion years brought this tiny crumpled organism to the crushing weight of my foot. And I want to scream and I want to run and I want to cry. Because it's beautiful and I'm worried I'm the only one who sees it. I'm worried it'll burn through me. I'm worried that when I walk this path for my hundred thousandth time, I won't see it like I did this first time. That my world will fall to ash again and I won't see the moss growing up between the seams in the sidewalk.

[seaoflove]

David Wojnarowicz, from When I Put My Hand on Your Body

Philip Pullman, from The Amber Spyglass

[text id under the cut]

[text id first image: “I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth to this present time I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”]

[text id second image: “I will love you forever; whatever happens. Till I die and after I die, and when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms, till I find you again… I’ll be looking for you, every moment, every single moment. And when we do find each other again, we’ll cling together so tight that nothing and no one’ll ever tear us apart. Every atom of me and every atom of you… We’ll live in birds and flowers and dragonflies and pine trees and in clouds and in those little specks of light you see floating in sunbeams… And when they use our atoms to make new lives, they won’t just be able to take one, they’ll have to take two, one of you and one of me, we’ll be joined so tight…”]

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Top 5 mushrooms? Top 5 clouds? Top 5 movie soundtrack? Top 5 poems?

sae, oh my gosh, i love you!! i am gonna do my best to actually take this seriously.

top 5 mushrooms:

5) oyster mushrooms!! i’ve grown them before, and they’re so fun and tasty.

4) lion’s mane mushrooms, because i see them out in the world, growing around trees and i simply want to pet them. (i usually do pet them, actually.)

3) morels, because oh my god, they just look so cool!!

2) beech mushrooms!! here are some beech mushrooms i put in my ramen the other day:

1) shiitakes. a total classic, 10/10. love those funky lil multi-purpose mushrooms!!

top 5 clouds:

5) the kind that hovered overhead yesterday like a really thick, fuzzy blanket, all dark grey and cozy.

4) the kind that look like sheep floating up in the sky. super puffy and soft, and i will live my whole life wanting to touch them and see if they feel like cotton balls.

3) the ones with sunbeams bursting through them!!

2) the kind that turn purple and look like streams of ribbon when the sun is setting.

1) the kind that dump warm spring rain directly on my head!!

top 5 movie soundtracks:

5) across the universe, specifically for the version of while my guitar gently weeps that martin luther mccoy does?? oh my god, it hits so hard every time. but the whole thing slaps, really.

4) moulin rouge!! it’s called taste, baby, and i have it!!!

3) pride and prejudice (2005). i listen to it when i’m writing sometimes, and it’s just so calming and lovely.

2) twilight. are you kidding?? supermassive black hole!!! are you kidding?? eyes on fire!!!!

1) new moon. one word: roslyn.

top 5 poems:

5) what it looks like to us and the words we use by ada limón

4) sonnet xvii by pablo neruda, trans. mark eisner

3) genesis by billy collins, though i can’t find a link to it, so here’s a page from my copy:

2) [it’s no use / mother dear...] by sappho, trans. mary barnard

1) walking home from oak-head by mary oliver

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - The Return

Pepper sobs, pressing her hands harder into the unforgiving wound, her hair matted to her face with tears as dawn threatens to break in the ever-present distance.

“Take-“ Tony wheezes, his eyes on the far off, barely peaking sun-rise. There are slithers of gold curling along the fringes of clouds still heavy with night. “Take-the-out-put-“ he gasps for breath, lunges rattling and Pepper shushes him; her eyelashes clumping together with tears.

“Don’t talk, Tony,” she pleads. She can’t see her hands through the blood. There’s so much blood. “Save your energy, save your-“

“The arc reactor,” he spits out, eyes clenched shut in pain. “Take it out- throw it into the-into the late.”

Pepper stares at him: willing comprehension to come. The lake? What lake? What- she looks around, before seeing, for the first time, the muddy bank they’re on. Tony had begged her to drag him here, she thought it was to keep them safe, but now- she doesn’t even know where they are. There’s a lake a little way off, and Tony’s half slumped in her arms. He feels heavier than he’s ever felt. She ignores him, for now, instead racking her brain. There has to be something they can do. The suit’s gone, but maybe she can run back to the battlefield, get it back- wear it, if she has to. There’ll be a medical kit embedded into the metal-

“The reactor!” He grits out, immediately yelling and arching from the pain of speaking. She moves her hands frantically to his face in an attempt to reassure him, but that makes the wound ooze afresh.

“Tony, I’m not taking it out,” she swears, hands falling back to the wound and applying pressure. How can she go back without letting him bleed out? “You’ll die-“

“I’m dying anyway,” he hisses, and she lets out another sob, and his eyes finally seem to see her. They finally drag away from the horizon. He softens. “Pepper,” he whispers, “please. Listen to me.” He’s summoning all his energy- they could be his last words to her- “take the reactor out, throw it in the lake, or I will die.”

“You’ve gone crazy,” she weeps, but her hands are already going to his chest. Her fingers tremble as she pulls the blue-core out. It burns her palms. It’s cracked in places. What will this do? This is stupid, he’s dying-he’s dying and she can’t do anything-

He’s looking up at her desperately.

She nods, struggling to her feet. She feels suddenly drained of energy- the shock and adrenaline confusing her system, but she runs like a colt born in the aftermath of nuclear war; clumsy and deformed, to the lake. With all her energy, she hurls the reactor.

It doesn’t go very far, and she screams when a second after the splash- the reactor shoots back out-

Attached to a hand.

She falls into the mud, scrambling back in fear and disbelief- eyes trained on the water. It’s murky and stagnant. A cesspool more than a lake as the mud encroaches into it. But it seems to be clearing rapidly. It’s lightening, turning a brighter, lighter blue. Arc-reactor blue.

The hand rises out, connected to a shoulder, connected to a head and-

The water shimmers azure.

A boy, but he’s not a boy, Pepper knows that. He looks like a boy, but he’s not. She can feel it. He’s adorned in pearls and topaz; he glitters like crystals and gems. He has ivory skin and lips of amethyst, and he’s wearing white robes. He comes to stand at the edge of the lake, his feet still in the water, and he looks at her, and then beyond her to Tony’s motionless form, and then he turns his eyes to the sunset.

“Bring him to me,” the boy whispers, and Pepper nods.

Tony is heavy as she drags him through the mud. His eyes unfocused, his words slurry. “”unrise?” He asks, despair thick in his tone, and she curses as he slips from her fingers. She grabs him bruisingly tight, and yanks him through the sludge towards the water’s edge. “Sunr…” he tries again, and she pants, frustration in her blood and she turns to look at the horizon to appease his delirium. She doesn’t understand.

The first rays are starting to dawn.

“Almost,” she answers, and he looks sick.

She doesn’t know what any of this means. She drags him to the water, and as soon as she does, the boy is grabbing Tony, and easing him a few feet in. The water laps over the older man hurriedly, beautiful blue and serene. The arc reactor is gone. Tony’s skin seems to flush slightly with life, and his eyes open, and he jolts.

“Peter,” he whispers, reaching a hand up to touch the boy’s face.

Pepper stares.

“Oh, Tony,” Peter hiccups, his eyes glitter like midnight stars. “Why did you wait so long? Why have you left it so late?” His hands skitter along Tony’s wounds in dismay. The water is washing into it. Pepper wants to say, it won’t stop bleeding if water’s on it, but she doesn’t think science applies here.

“”m too late?” Tony asks, his smile half-dazed. The pain is gone. Euphoria and the final chapters are upon him. “At leas’... got to see you, again…” he mumbles, and his dirty, bloody, muddy fingers, stroke across Peter’s perfect lips.

Peter shakes his head, diamond tears trailing down his cheeks. “It is not too late. I won’t let it be too late.”

A beam of sunlight breaks over the pink horizon.

Peter seems to startle into action, and he starts easing Tony further and further into the lake- deeper and deeper, and Pepper startles, reaching forward to grab her best friend’s ankle. “He’ll drown!” She cries; voice breaking, and Peter looks for one moment like he’s going to send her sprawling back into the mud, but then he doesn’t.

He reaches over Tony’s body to cup her face in his hand.

He can’t leave the water, she realises. Before she feels it: energy, warm and healing seems to flow from him into her. She feels stronger. “He’s special,” Peter whispers, voice thick with feeling, “He’s precious.”

Pepper knows that. But Peter’s the one in all the diamonds who rose out of a lake-

“I gave him the core all those years ago. His name is written across the universe. He is greater. His soul is more. I have to taken him. He is my love. My heart.”

“But…” tears spring afresh, and Peter pulls away, leaving her with strength and faith and grief.

“He may return to you someday.” Peter promises, hooking his hands under Tony’s arms as though the man doesn’t weigh a thing. “I will take him to my land and I will heal him. He may come back to you. I hope he does not.”

“Pepper’s smart,” Tony says, and it’s a visceral relief to hear how much stronger his voice sounds now. He’s still bleeding, but the water isn’t red with it. He looks weak, but alive. “You don’t have to explain everything- hurry up, the sun’ll burn you-“

A sunbeam on cue strikes across Peter’s face and Pepper can smell ash.

“Pepper,” Peter whispers, heedless of the way his twinkle seems to dim in the light. “I am grateful to you for keeping him safe, but he is my heart.”

She nods, almost pushing him away so he doesn’t turn to dust, and as Peter goes back into the lake, into the shadows of water: the scent of ash disappears and his twinkle returns.

She watches as the two of them submerge.

Tony gives her a smile and a wink. Clumsy and bloody, but Tony.

It’s a goodbye.

She passes out as the sun rises.

When she wakes up there is no lake. She’s on hardened mud; alive and healed, but dirty. Happy staggers out of the shrubbery and demands to know where Tony is- frantic and worried, and Pepper stares at the noon-day sun and shakes her head.

“I think…” she whispers, “…he’s with his heart.”

I love you guys and this fandom, but I don’t like the anonymous hate I’ve been seeing people get recently :( I thought we were awesome because we were so close knit and supportive. We get so much hate from antis, can’t we all just love each other? :((( Please? 

[libidomechanica]

So longer face

So longer face, she flitted for mirth, a good  as me; for brilliance— why were 

the stomach of the sight and  evry others the dear I have kept 

yours yet give for you proporti oned on her mind was in Brunswick 

Square;—for weeping. Redress suwarrow.  And if myself mine own soul. “The 

middle statues, friezes, corals, so did seem stark  mute he sets up not one; but she heard,” looking 

on the shape appear as if “t  would be thou hast he rode upon two young praises 

from her: the harbor berth,  reflection, who, being throng, — beauties 

which is this adventures new.  As if Life in languished it—

but we will stay, because we  combat with unaccount; 

and the rest unpaid. With Jove, to  dedicate in chief that sense, 

as law required; Them all that  hath the world, nor starts, stops for an 

Hermitage. love me—toll the son,—the  church, and feel for newspaper pale 

cord, and then see all love the purple of  byrds by night and bowed, she love ground; where 

was a nice you are only  bare. Water, as yet; but not my ain defence 

of all on this, how to mob me  up the thread now? If thousands 

of shadows numberland ancient elm, lean  and Bored. And for your country 

ladies” care, were born to lay. In hart  loud and polishd out an iron time I 

torturing, jesting, with the placed,  or for heroine clamoured fragrant 

flowers of an old plant bombs into  girls, with more cannot 

tune those state, was no gift of the  sixteenth, at fifty yards is 

to pain, feeding chains, with change unearthly  cates the river. And in play, 

thoughts were the rest vnder tower was  over the uncouth swain, and in 

aspect, plainly injury, reversions, where  yet thee the eight is young Lycid lies 

the pit? I would be vexed and not whether  face, except the breme Wintersection 

came dazzling tears and the  sunbeam showed the beginning if 

any think that she is music. From each  will drink to retreat, whom your wise 

he spongy cloud may seem with please, improved,  but oh, ye goddesses of the 

fair. His soul and gentle swain, enow  of a bushy brere was a 

man, altho a lady, it is sent to  marry her necks, which would leaders 

of the Hand of day, ye wadna  been of Egypts rays, to 

the dreams, goodnight—which he was but  should determine were but sought her 

joys, her love sheepe, with a grand  are things we embraced, and silver netting 

how with person fair guerdon: ’“t is  ever. She asked with dust; 

and a good dinners had heart, ridiculous. To  ravel both be here, blushing 

but little torrents all. That should get” where thou  art; fixed place, all full of fire, that 

weeps; such noise of rouged, sown with favouring  blinding six feet in thy cases, 

was then when inches  have grows his dying her far thee; thine 

of the vnwary sheep down the tast,  each hands, lace, until I heartbreak the 

quite control; yet do it I will not fairest of  ruin! with some shes 

in a day or nightly me, And flaunt Body  of Shalott. but, trowth, I fought, and 

fancie feede, or was a boards of sorrowing  ordures of Older Men. (Some for 

letting imitated at once am  fit for at evning ordinations of 

life spilt for his descend, and let  me his stuff that happely I discerning 

for the town shame yonder hands      & i  can have pass like an amphitheatre, 

each base, to light on me,) if Loue awake  unto his father die a man 

knows wherefore she said God, . The sea, there by zephyrs,  street of silver bugle hunger proue.

[demalore]

Skins New and Old

(a short work of fiction by me about lesbian dragons, ty to Katza and Payton for reading it over ily)

To be trapped in the sky and stripped of our wings, that is how we perish. For when we grow old or ill, we do so inside ourselves, inside the skins given to us by our Mother. And what death can follow such a blessed life? Hardly a lasting death at all. We know well not to fear it.

And so I disguise myself, in a shroud of thin, ragged, fabric, without fear. I will die whole, or not at all. More, I will risk the half-life in the knight’s towers, flightless.

Take care not to give me too much credit. I am not at all brave. Just caught in a pure, necessary love; a space in my scales so soft as to cover me completely, make me as vulnerable as a newlyhatched.

Watch me leave my cave for the open air. You will recognize me in my manmade shawl, which drips with shadow as a comb does honey, but you are alone. My kin do not greet me as they pass, but neither do they strike me. I do not glimmer, wrapped in dull fabrics. I am earth, I am insect, I am the air itself.

The fortress’ spire rises, tearing through the uncut horizon, making room for the sprawling settlement below. I cannot take my eyes off it, rising higher and higher with each step I take. I must pull my cloak tighter, and remember my legs.

My disguise strengthens with every step. The sand beneath my feet flattens to dirt, then breaks out in smooth boils of cobblestone. More fabric spins around me, until I am but a thread in the tapestry. I spy bare feet, cracked hands, but no faces. Every woman has a shadow perched on her nose, as I do. Hoarding each hopeful glance, each laugh or starving smile, under its hood.

I grit my teeth, I hold my self in my mouth. My second-most precious treasure. Even guarded by my snarling canines, my self seems to slip. I watch the laundrymaids and shopkeepers. Any one of them could reach into my hood and pluck me, easily as a grape.

But everyone I see is such soft, naked fruit. They know nothing else. They are taught nothing of armor, save how to fear it.

I am halfway through the city before I see something flash. It hooks my eye and reels my head around as far it’ll twist without snapping. I realize too late that it cannot be one of my kin. This close to the fortress, only one thing shines so brightly.

The knight’s armor, up close, is sickening. From above, it appears only laughable, a child’s imitation of our own glorious visage. Now, mere feet away from that same armor, and a few inches lower, I can appreciate how thoroughly they have bastardized our gift.

My kin were created to share the sun and sky. Wide arms and broad backs to carry ourselves and our young to the clouds and back. Glistening skin to scatter sunbeams to the farthest reaches of the earth.

To see the knight move makes me itch under my shawl. His body segmented in six, it amazes me he can stay whole at all. One scale for his torso, one for each of his limbs; even his face is covered.

Are they this greedy, I wonder, that they do not even permit themselves to see the sunlight they steal? So twisted that they are jealous of their own possessions?

My teeth begin to snap. Once again, I fear for my self, so precariously balanced atop my canines. Hot, thick hatred bubbles up from my throat. I clamp my mouth closed. I am afraid that smoke must be billowing from my hood, but I remain as nondescript as every other patch in this living quilt. Brown and shrouded, even under the noontime sun. Only the knight stands apart, in his gleaming, stolen armor.

Disgusted as I am, I cannot draw my eyes away from the knight. The knights claim to enhance our scales, bashing them concave to absorb instead of reflect. Welded together to prevent the slightest leak. I can no more look away from his armor than fly against the sun.

I trail behind the knight. My two feet improvise on my hunter’s stride. I long for my familiar agility, to be prepared to take flight, should the knight’s mask linger too long on me. But my anonymity makes up for my awkwardness. He approaches the tower without flinching, and I, doing my best to mimic his assured posture, do the same.

Oh, the tower. There was a time I wouldn’t dare to even fly over it, and now I am treading beneath its feet, under its skin. Knights by the handful surround me, but this is no trap, no lion’s den, not yet.

I itch, knowing I am an offering walking right to my altar. I see fewer knights as I ascend the central stairway, each more grotesque than the last. The knight I followed into the fortress was fully stable, so far as I could tell. Above ground, the knights are markedly less so. Artificial scales bulge awkwardly around their twisted bodies. Trees grown under cliffsides, stretching spastically in the dark.

For once, I am thankful that the knights wear armor. I have no desire to see their true forms, underneath. I’ve seen how they’ve transformed and dismembered us. What, then, could they have done to themselves?

On the staircase’s first landing, one knight’s mask sweeps me over, and something snags his gaze. I freeze, waiting for him to approach me--luckily, this is apparently the appropriate response. And he does approach, leisurely, so sure of his power to make me powerless.

“Are you lost, m’lady?” The sound of teeth, a crooked smile, beneath his mask. I do not feel safe enough with only my shadow to conceal me. My self jumps against my teeth, pulled by a string towards where the knight’s eyes must be.

“No, good sir,” I answer. Surrounded by human voices, I am surprised by the strength of my own. Checked by fear, it still rings pure as song. Blasphemous, here, like frolicking in a graveyard. I must force a stutter into my voice.

If the knight notices, he does not show it. “May I be of any assistance?” I do not notice how close he is until his hand is on my shoulder. Preparing to climb me, or crush me, I am not sure, and do not want to know.

“I can assure you,” he goes on, taking my silence and stillness as consent, “I am as strong and as capable a knight as any you are likely to find.” I am nearly impressed, how such blatant egoism can be dressed like politeness. I’m sure that I’m expected to blush at this moment. I pretend to do so; he has no way of knowing that, under my hood, I am snarling.

“If you’ll allow me to escort you…” and easily as that, he’s taken hold of me, leading me I don’t know where. He certainly has no intention of telling me. He pushes me to the side, away from the staircase, further from the busy core of the fortress.

I may speak his tongue, but all he seems to comprehend is flattery. “Oh, no, sir,” I stammer, “I don’t want to inconvenience a knight as important as you.”

“Nonsense.” The knight snaps my excuse in half like a toothpick. A door swoops before us, and I am swallowed, alone with my captor.

“Now if you’ll allow me…” I don’t allow him, but he does it anyway. He lowers himself an inch, his eyes level with mine, and peels away my hood.

The knight straightens immediately. Whatever smoky, suggestive atmosphere he had been silently brewing dissipates. The gleam of possession behind his mask, however, does not fade. Laid bare in the gleam of his armor, I am already his.

Before he can remember what I am for, I strike. My atrophied arm shudders from the blow, and I leave no dent in his mask, but he is startled, if not harmed. It is enough for me to slip past him, open the door, and run back to the stairs.

“Intruder!” he announces as he chases after me, only when he is sure he cannot catch me himself. I curse his cowardice under my breath as I run. Had he kept hold of his dignity a few moments longer, I might’ve made it to the stairway unimpeded.

Seeming to step out of the walls themselves, three more knights appear between myself and the stairway. All three of them in full armor, but all so distorted, I can’t distinguish limb from face from torso. I fear I won’t be able to break through their armor, but more than that, I fear that I will.

Moments before colliding with the trio, I arch my neck, looking as far up the stairway as I can. The tower narrows to a point just a few stories above me. I shed my shawl in its entirety, unpeeling myself from my lowered hood. The sudden gleam of my scales buys me the moment of hesitation I need. Before four gaping guards, I unfurl my thin, but sturdy wings, and beat them furiously downward.

My heart clambers into my lungs. With each grueling downbeat, the air seems to be sucked from my mouth, and I struggle to draw half a breath. It is grueling to retain wings in this form, much less use them. Thankfully, my gamble was well-judged, and it takes but a few vertical strides to reach the tower’s pinnacle. My pursuers vanish beneath my claws, but they are nothing held to what awaits me.

Enough of my kin have escaped the knights for us to learn about them, what they do to us. They are graphic stories. Those of us who have never been touched by the knights still tremble at night in fear of them. Yet for all I had heard, I was not prepared to see my love in this wretched state.

Aerax.

The one whose name I sing with every living breath.

Whose scales rival not only the sun, but every star and planet above it.

Whose roar topples trees, shakes rain from the skies, and brings me to weep like a newlyhatched.

Had I not seen the heartbreaking relief and fear in Aerax’s eyes, I would not have recognized her at all.

Laying atop a horde of precious metals, intricate fabrications, and still-bleeding scales, is a woman. Every inch of her not swaddled in fairy-floss fabrics is pale as moonlight on a winter stream. The blonde haze of hair framing her face seems bold by comparison, though it is so thin as to be nearly translucent. For a woeful moment, I fear she might blow away, should anyone carelessly open a window.

But she is flesh, slight as she is. And there are no windows to this prison. The only light comes from the mountain of armor reclining behind the woman.

As I watch, able to neither advance nor retreat, the mountain quivers, and rises to brush the tower’s lofty apex.

“Another trophy,” the mountain gurgles and pops, as if there is a river caught in its throat. I flinch to be addressed as such, but the decision to act lays just beyond my reach. I am enthralled by the slow awakening of this beast.

It is a knight, surely, but unlike any knight I have seen thus far. Yards of armor cover its corpulent body, curved into the most unnatural, inhuman shapes. I cannot count its limbs. It seems to be growing and reabsorbing them as it rolls over to address me. It pauses for a few still seconds before I realize that its mask is now facing me. It’s comically small, amid its boulder-size shoulders, elbows, and kneecaps.

“And who has captured this one?” the monstrous knight turns slowly to take in the entire room, looking for the knight responsible. It’s a strange feeling, for my naked scales, my widespread wings, to be so casually overlooked. I expect fear, awe, desire. Here, alone, I am invisible.

It’s my best chance to run.

I chose to run forward.

Again, I remind you not to think of me as brave. Running toward my love--and, in turn, toward the monster that captured her--is the least sensible thing I've ever done. Save, perhaps, for falling in love at all.

No brush of wind can enter this tomb. My wings droop behind me, bobbing heaving with each step forward. And yet, and yet, my Mother reaches out to hold me, fills my wings with wind, and carries me into Aerax's arms.

I feel a pang of fear as I land. Surely, her arms will break under my weight, her face will melt from the heat of my kisses.

But I needn't feared, for Mother holds Aerax, too. And beneath the bruises that spring from my touch come scales. Where my head nestles in the crook of her neck, her thin shoulder blades stretch into wings. And as my rough muzzle scrapes against her cherubic cheeks, her own noble snout arises, fitting perfectly against mine.

"We will escape now?" Aerax asks. She, too, is riding on hope alone. Neither of us have a plan for escape. Her wings are still crumpled and wet, like a butterfly's straight from the chrysalis. And, exhausted as I am, my wings are in no better shape.

Mother has not given us wings alone.

"No," I say, pulling Aerax to her feet. "We are going to have to fight."

If we hadn't come to the decision on our own, the monstrous knight would've made it for us. In his search for the nonexistent conquering hero, he waddles in front of the stairway, blocking off the only exit.

Aerax's claws, I notice, have been dulled by paints and polish. My own are worn down from hours of walking. But they’re our God-given weapons, and she will not fail us now.

We charge. And only then, I believe, does the knight realize we were not trophies.

We strike whichever of the knight's limbs we can reach. He swats us like flies, but not without receiving a few good bites in turn. Shinier, sturdier scales emerge where we are struck. The armor we batter ourselves against acts as a whetstone to our blunted bodies.

Our will weakens as the battle draws on. Our endurance wavers, our limbs grow heavy. The knight's armor neither dulls nor tires. We cannot possibly surprise it, nor weaken it with tooth and nail.

Still, we battle on, not noticing our own forms changing with each moment. We only realize it in each other, when we both stop for breath.

I nearly weep at the sight of Aerax, restored. Beyond restored, I dare to say, for her wings have such arching breadth, her scales such sinister shimmer, I’m sure for a moment that she is the Mother herself.

It seems we’ve grown faster, stronger; but truly, it’s only the armor that has slowed. The knight is as stunned by our transformation as we are. Or he’s just tired from slapping us around the tower.

The knight's limbs curl inward, and we brace ourselves, expecting some new attack. Instead, with a shrieking metallic sound, the knight sheds his armor. Pieces of armor as big as ourselves slough from the giant’s body. I want to avert my eyes, but he fills the room, there’s nowhere else to look.

The knight's skin is gleaming white, as it must've been before he became corrupted. Beyond that, I cannot tell what kind of man he had been. His bloblike arms, nearly tentacles now, extend from a torso that is more deformity than not. His face melts down his neck, scattering eyes and mouths wherever there’s room. Where his skin is translucent, I see worms and slime circulating like blood through his arms and legs. Black-spotted fungi grow where his flesh envelopes itself, whole ecosystems subsisting off his excesses.

The urge to destroy snaps through me like ice in spring. Even without the armor weighing him down, he is too weak to move. His vulnerability is as enticing as it is sickening. The flesh is already atrophying, just waiting to be torn from his bones.

Will you be angry, I wonder, if we do not kill him? Even were we to heed your wishes, it would be too late. We’ve already escaped. We are already free.

And if you are still in that tower, still waiting for the knight to be slain, I can only pity you. You will continue waiting for ages, until you make your own escape. But we will be here, your family, waiting patiently, when you do.

[moonsandstar-s]

The Final Warning - Chapter XXII

Chapter XXII - Fight and Flight 

Summary:  As the year draws to a close, peace has finally dawned. The time for unity has arrived. In the Vytal festival, it is time for heroes to rise, bringing glory to their kingdoms. But as autumn dies, the first winds of winter blow over Remnant, chilling the hearts of the people; breathing doubt into their souls. Long-buried secrets will triumph, and every action will have a consequence. Ruby must reconcile herself with her own fate. Weiss struggles to escape her legacy. Blake cannot erase memories. Yang’s search leads her into more peril than ever— but none of them can outrun fate. Shadows turn on shadows, and bonds shatter as they are tested to the limit. For in dividing them, they will fall and burn; at the eye of the storm, no peace lasts forever. In the end and beginning of time, there is a place where the sun never rises, and the dead delight to teach the living. A great danger is rising from the darkness. It’s time to take sides. The final warning is coming. The first chill of winter is the most deadly; it is the chill that kills more than any other. The first betrayal is the most damaging; it is the act that shatters bonds of love and trust, crushing even the strongest heart, tearing teams apart. AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7745314/chapters/21473954 Pyrrha 

The night had almost been too much to process, but now that they were standing outside of Beacon Tower, it hit her full-force like a ton of bricks. They were right at the base of the Tower, standing beneath the battlements, while a war raged below them in the vault.

I’ve killed Penny. Beacon is under attack. The defenses have failed, and a Grimm wyvern is set on the Tower. Amber is dead, and Cinder possesses all the powers of the Fall Maiden. Ozpin is gone.

She swayed slightly on her feet, breath coming fast and shallow, and then Jaune was there, one hand steadying her. “Pyrrha!” His voice was panicked. “Stay with me.”

She took a deep breath, smoky air billowing out from her mouth in the frigid air. The stars whirled overhead, and her vision focused until she could see again, and the ground felt steadier under her feet. “I’m okay, Jaune,” she said, her voice sounding far away. Every nerve of her body felt stretched taut, tension ballooning between them. She knew part of her tension wasn’t just the suppressed feelings— she had felt Amber’s soul enter her body, however briefly, and it had changed her. For the slightest of instances, she had felt the edges of a thousand souls, all the Maidens from the dawn of time, whispering in her mind, not sleeping but barely awake. She had felt fire and smoke, the briskness of winter and the heat of summer combined, pure power thrumming through her. It had been the most exhilarating thing she had ever experienced, and the most painful in her life, because as the power and ambition had flowed into her veins, her own soul had been pushed out. When Amber’s soul had withdrawn, yanked out by Cinder’s arrow and the cold hand of death, flooding into Cinder instead— Pyrrha’s soul had returned to her body, but she had been changed by the experience, and she knew it. She had tasted raw, elemental power, and for Cinder to possess not even a quarter of it, as Pyrrha had tasted, but the whole thing…

“She has to be stopped,” Pyrrha said aloud. “If Ozpin doesn’t stop her… Cinder has power, enormous power. She could summon the wyvern here to the Tower. She could summon the Grimm, make a ruin of Vale, of Remnant.”

Jaune’s blue eyes glittered at her in worry. “How is that even possible? She doesn’t control everything!”

“She could— if she killed Ozpin and took all the Maiden’s powers.” Pyrrha took a rattling breath, one hand on Miló, the other resting on Akoúo̱. “She could control this whole world.”

“The… Maidens? I don’t understand… what?”

Pyrrha looked nervously at the Tower, imagining the battle raging beneath their feet, all the power of autumn reckoned against Ozpin. He would never be able to withstand such an onslaught, and she shifted on her feet, anxious to get going, to do something. “Jaune, we can’t—”

“No, listen. Pyrrha.” His face was hard with anger— not at her, but at the situation, at the sheer injustice of it all, and she could have almost wailed aloud in pain. “Down in the vault. That’s the decision you were worrying about, wasn’t it? That’s what made you so sad for so long. Whatever Ozpin was doing with that girl in the coma and you, and the orange light…”

She stared, caught off-guard. “How did you…?”

“I know you,” he said simply. “What was it? Why were you in the vault, why did Ozpin ask you to go, just… all of it. Why?”

She clenched her teeth. “We don’t have time to talk—”

“Pyrrha.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and she realized, with a swift, sudden shock, what tonight must look like to him— how she must look, chosen by Ozpin, forced into her role. “Please.”

Giving up, deciding that an explanation would be swifter than an argument, she let out a deep exhale of breath. “You remember the legend of the seasonal Maidens, Jaune, don’t you?”

He looked confused, as if it was irrelevant. With a burst of bitterness, she wished it was. “Yeah, of course.”

Ever-conscious of how little time there was left, she rushed out the words, stumbling over them in her haste. “The legend of the Maidens is true. All of it is true. There are four Maidens on Remnant, and they can wield magic without Dust, and they’re incredibly, incredibly, powerful. Ozpin knew it, the General knew it, so did Goodwitch and that Huntsman, Ruby’s uncle. I was called to Ozpin’s office about a week ago, remember? He told me all of this, but he told me that there was a girl—”

“The girl in the vault?” Jaune was paling visibly as she went on.

“Yes. Her. Amber is her name. She is— was— the autumn Maiden, but she was attacked a while ago— attacked by Cinder. Cinder wants her powers. She only managed to steal half of them before Ruby’s uncle saved Amber, and Cinder escaped with half the Maidens’ power, leaving Amber in a coma when she fled. Amber wouldn’t live forever, though, especially not in a coma, so Ozpin wanted to use me as a… a vessel for the rest of the power, so Cinder couldn’t take it by default when Amber died. But that didn’t work out, because Cinder struck tonight, setting up the tournament to fail, having Grimm destroy the kingdom’s defenses, and to engage Vale in battle while she went down to the vault to steal the Maiden’s powers. She wants the power of it, I guess, wants the sheer strength it will give her… and now she has it. She has the Maidens’ power.”

His eyes were as round as moons, his jaw sagging open. “That,” he said with apparent difficulty, “is one of the craziest things I’ve heard.”

She took a heaving breath. “You have to believe it.”

He shook his head, still looking faintly stunned. “Of course I believe it; I just saw it with my own eyes, and I trust you. But… what are we going to do now?”

As soon as he said, a loud noise ripped through the air, like shattering stone mixed with an echoing scream. The ground shook violently under their feet, and they both fell to their hands and knees as the stone bucked under them, the very air vibrating with a deafening roar. When it subsided, Pyrrha looked up, and her heartbeat seemed to stagger as she saw what was there.

Within the transparent windows of the school, like a comet returning to the heavens, a blazing orange streak was hurtling upward, towards the summit of Beacon Tower. They were far away, but as they watched the streak bear upward, fire emanating from its shape as it shattered floors and windows, Pyrrha knew who it was.

Cinder.

“But Ozpin was fighting her,” Jaune cried out. “If she’s gotten out…”

“She killed him.” Pyrrha set her jaw. “There’s not much time left.” She turned to Jaune, before a thought occurred to her, and she frowned. With a sudden, striking realization, like a sunbeam parting the clouds, she recognized what she must do. There was no one left to save Vale, no one to hide behind. No Maidens, no Ozpin, no heroes to save the day…

Except for me.

The thought came with a faint echo of surprise, and oddly enough, she didn’t feel dread, only an unwavering resignation as the answer came to her. There is no one left to fight Cinder, no one who could hope to stand against her.

No one except me.

“Go,” she said suddenly. “You need to get out of here. Get to the city— tell Qrow and Glynda what happened. Before it’s too late.”

He sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth. “But… what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to fight her,” Pyrrha said quietly. “Don’t you see? This is the only way, I have to do it. Not out of a sense of responsibility, or because Ozpin thought I would fight Cinder… but because I love Remnant. I love Vale. I love Beacon, and all of you… and she’ll destroy it, if someone doesn’t stop her. Jaune…. if I don’t come back…” She swallowed. “When I don’t come back… don’t grieve. Just… live. There’s no one to make pay. There won’t be, not after this. The only way you could possibly make it all okay is… be the best person you can be. Don’t let it warp you, change you… see the beauty in life.”

Jaune looked shell-shocked, and he reached out, holding her hands between his. “Pyrrha,” he said, whisper-soft. “Please…”

“There is a poem,” she said. “‘Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.’” She gripped his hands tightly. "I'll always be with you."

His eyes shimmered brightly, and then, in a mutual sort of understanding, they both leaned forward, and they were kissing. Her chest feeling as though someone had clawed a hole in it, she cradled his face between her hands, the face she knew so well, kissing him as if the world were collapsing around them— and it was, wasn’t it, in a way? All they knew, all she had ever known, was irrevocably changed. And she found herself savoring every sensation, every thought and touch and sound, for she knew— almost certainly— that they would, very well, be her last ones. For ever. It was one thing to have the uncertain threat of death all around you. It was quite another to walk into your own demise, knowing that you would not return, and accepting that you would die, you must die, no matter what.

And she was choosing the latter.

This, she knew, was her fate from the instant Professor Ozpin had summoned her and told her knowledge that changed what she knew forever. The boyish lines of Jaune’s features were resettling into harder, more angular shapes, and his face was wet with blood or tears, soot streaking his cheeks.  He tasted like salt, a cacophony of blood and tears and pain. And their very first kiss was the first kiss of goodbye, of farewell, an adieu, because she didn’t think she would see him again— she could feel it, deep inside, where she could feel her heart breaking and falling and crumbling. Adieu. What a tragic word it was. Not quite a ‘goodbye’, not an au revoir. Not a see you again, someday, for we will certainly meet again— but adieu, a goodbye. A reqiuem. A final, ever-so-final, parting of ways.

She pulled away. He was crying as well, tears carving clear paths down his cheeks, and his eyes— beautiful blue, and heartbroken— rested on her.

I love you, she thought. But I have to do this. You understand that, don’t you, that this must have always been my fate? The words were there, choking in the back of her throat like tears, but as they tumbled to the front of her mouth, they came out differently.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, an infinite tenderness in her voice. “I will never forget what you have given me.”

He clutched at her hands harder, tears streaking down his face. “Isn’t there another way? Pyrrha, you don’t…” His voice faded away. They both knew that it had to come to this, that she was the only one who was strong enough, but he was shaking his head, backing away from her. “I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you die, Pyrrha. I won’t.”

Hating herself for it, knowing it was the only way, she summoned a burst of polarity to her hands, knocking him backward into a rocket locker. The door clattered shut, locking him inside, and his blue eyes glittered out from the shadows, now panicked.

“Pyrrha! No, please! I can’t lose you, please…”

“You won’t lose me,” she said gently. “I will always be in your heart, Jaune. You can go on. I know you.”

With that, she dialed in a location, shutting her ears to his pleas, summoning the warrior inside of her, the one in tune with sacrifice and blood and fighting.

Destiny.

The locker shot away into the night, spitting blue fire, and she watched it vanish in a glimmer of sapphire the color of his eyes. Suppressing a thrum of pain and regret, she turned, and began to walk towards the Tower, towards her fate, towards her destiny… towards her demise. / / / 

Jaune

He staggered from the wreckage of the rocket locker, his knees singing with pain, all his limbs watery and shaking. He could taste salt on his lips, could barely stand, but he numbly wrenched his Scroll from his pocket, thumbing in a code on the shattered screen. Weiss’s face sprang up, a diagonal crack running down the glass just over her eye, and the garbled dial tone rang out in the air.

She picked up on the third ring. Once, many weeks ago, he would have been all fumbling hands and nervous words, but he could only laugh at the memory of how he had once felt for Weiss— and how dearly it had cost the person who he was close to losing now.

He could hear the roaring of Grimm in the background, because everything was going to hell, and he could hear Ruby’s scythe taking down one after another. “Weiss!” He cried, clutching the Scroll like a lifeline— and for Pyrrha, it was— “Please, you have to stop her!”

“What?”

“Pyrrha!” he shrieked, his heart in his throat. ““She’s going after that woman at the top of the Tower. Cinder! She thinks she can sacrifice herself to buy us time, but she doesn’t stand a chance!”  

“Jaune, what are you talking about? Where are you?”

“Don’t worry about me!” He stumbled, his shoulder slamming into the side of a building. He could feel tears streaming down his face, hotly blurring his vision. “Please— please, you have to save Pyrrha. I can’t…”

“We will,” she said urgently. “Are you okay?”

Sorrow exploded out from him, his voice a harsh cry. He could feel the Scroll leave his hand and he collapsed, harshly choking on his sobs. I cannot lose her, I can’t— just as I realized how she felt, how I felt, it was always there… Why was I so stupid? Why did I wait… why, why, why…

He looked up, seeing what was in front of him. He’d landed in the city, right in the middle of the battle of Grimm. Somewhere across the sea of darkness, there were other Huntsmen. He had to help now; he realized that. He couldn’t be the coward anymore, the one who stood idly by while other people sacrificed themselves to keep him safe. With a grimace, he unsheathed his sword in one fluid motion, watching the moonlight dance across the blade, and wishing fervently that things were different. He could never make it back to the Tower... but there was someone who could, and all he could do was pray - pray, and use the skills that his partner had instilled within him.

His sword felt different in his hand. Firmer. Stronger, somehow, like he’d finally grown into it. Like he understood it now, and he and the warrior inside of him were balanced, as one— at a cost. But the price was too much to pay.

He pictured her weeks ago before she had turned into the sorrowful person he had just been torn away from— her eyes laughing, her face encouraging, and always— always— loving. It was all he had missed and all he had never seen.

He saw the raging sea of Grimm, tearing through the streets. There were only four Huntsmen there to suppress the tide of darkness. Once upon a time, it would have scared him. But now he only felt cold. He lifted his sword, swaying a little on his feet, and took a step forward to confront a snarling Ursa. The sight of its mindless, hate-filled red eyes made him cower, before he steeled himself, a similar snarl taking over his features.

This is not how it ends.

He pictured his partner’s dying— dead?— face, and let his fury loose.

/ / / 

Pyrrha

Upon entry into the Tower, after sending Jaune to the city, Pyrrha found that she had been right. Cinder had defeated Ozpin. The broken elevator, still streaming smoke from its shaft, stood as a testament to her victory. She had gained the Maiden’s powers after murdering Amber, and used them to propel herself to the top, to the office, the summit of the Tower. Pyrrha knew that, from there, she would be waiting to make the final claim for triumph over Vale. She would try to get the Grimm wyvern to do her bidding, and it could destroy a building with the merest lash of its tail. Pyrrha couldn’t even begin to imagine the destruction it would wreak if it were to actually try on Cinder’s will. She had already won against Ozpin, and she had no clue that Pyrrha was there, at the base of the Tower, of how she was ready for this, for her fate.

She didn’t know that there was only one soul waiting to stop her.

Pyrrha stepped into the elevator, skirting the smoking hole that gaped in the center where Cinder had shot through. With a glance upward, swallowing past the fear in her throat, she reached out, feeling, with her semblance, all the metal in the elevator. Then, with a mighty surge, she yanked it up and felt herself shoot skyward like a cork popped from a bottle.

The elevators flew wide open as she reached the top, torn apart by the centrifuge, and she burst through them without hesitation, seeing Cinder standing there with her back to the doors. Every bit of training and power surging through her fingertips, Pyrrha hurled Miló out of her hand like a javelin, aiming straight for the Fall Maiden, for Cinder, for her final opponent.

The first thing she became aware of was four pairs of glowing eyes, the color of fire, resting on her— Cinder’s eyes, and then, behind her, the eyes of the Grimm. The wyvern. It was curled around the Tower in a horrible imitation, a mockery of a bird on its perch, but as she exploded into the office, guns blazing, it took to the air with a shriek and a buffeting sweep of its wings.

Cinder snarled, ducking out of Miló’s path with a sinuous ease, like a snake. “Fool,” she hissed. “Ozpin is gone. He holds no power over you, and the powers were never yours, this isn’t your fight—”

“You’re wrong.” Pyrrha’s voice was flat and cold as she stared at Cinder. Every nerve in her body humming with an eerie calm, she pulled Miló back to her grip with a flash of her semblance. “For every soul you hurt tonight and every destiny you manipulated in your own hunger for power, it is another reason for me to fight. You played with fate as if it was yours to control… mine and Penny’s and all the people who suffered tonight because of you. So I ask you: how can you think that destinies are for you to meddle with? A true warrior knows that destiny is never defined, and I choose my own path. This is what I choose, and you’ll never take Vale or another person’s fate as long as I live!”

Cinder’s lips curved upward, as if Pyrrha’s words were amusing. “You remind me of him a bit,” she said, a strange note in her voice, like a purr. “The same unfailing faith in your own will. The same belief in the eventual triumph of what was good.” The smile fell from her face. “But Ozpin’s beliefs didn’t save him in the end. His arrogance came to nothing. His strength didn’t save him. Nor shall yours.”

Pyrrha struck, then, flashing her spear out as Cinder summoned a burst of flame to dance in her hands, giving her face a ghostly, haunted look. She knocked Miló away with a snarl of anger, but Pyrrha summoned it back, and they stared at each other, each sizing the other up. They both circled each other, like hawks, like two predators locked in some ancient hunt. The distant shrieking of the wyvern echoed through the Tower, and then, as one, they struck, and Pyrrha could almost imagine a clap of thunder echoing through Vale as they smashed into each other.

Fire scorched Pyrrha’s back as she landed several hard strikes, and she flipped back, using the force to launch herself off the wall, feet planted firmly on Akoúo̱’s center. She flew forward like a bullet shot from a gun, the shield backed by her weight, but Cinder blocked her with a shove of her arms. Pyrrha’s chest heaved as she fought for breath, and then she gasped; Cinder was hovering in the center of the Tower, actually hovering in midair, like some magic levitating trick, but twisted, horrible and wrong. Fire burned under her feet, the awful beauty of autumn’s fire emanating from her eyes, golden glory blazing forth in the shadows.

“You see,” she rasped, “this is the power he promised you, the power he lied of, what he kept smothered and shrouded in secrecy, what was never yours—”

Snarling, Pyrrha charged, cutting off Cinder’s words mid-sentence. With a flick of her fingers, Cinder spun around, her hand flashing out as she sent forth an arc of fire that dived forward like a snake, spitting sparks. Forced to dodge it, Pyrrha rolled to the side before crying out as another stream of fire shot towards her. She jumped over it, landing on both feet, planted apart on the ground. She looked up, eyes streaming from the heat and smoke now curling through the room, but her whole body felt as though it was made of ice. A deep chill settled in her veins.

Six balls of seething, shifting fire had formed behind Cinder, casting a deadly red halo of light across her hair, a net of scarlet dancing across her skin. With a laugh lost in the roar of the flame, she flung them forward, and Pyrrha whirled and danced, barely avoiding them. She screamed aloud in frustration as she saw Cinder had moved yet again, the fire still shivering beneath her feet like a compass point.

Another stream of fire dove forward from the Maiden’s hands, a thick band of writhing lava, and this time, Pyrrha, with a muttered prayer, grasped Akoúo̱ and thrust herself forward into the midst of the fire, knowing Cinder wouldn’t expect it.

The minute she hit the roaring, spitting inferno, her Aura shivered with the effort of keeping her skin intact, but she could still feel the flame licking her skin, singeing it, as it spilled past Akoúo̱’s edges and spattered against her. Every pain she had ever endured, times ten, twenty, a hundred— every fight— nothing had been so hard as this, and her breath burned in her lungs, like acid, the smoke blinding her. She slammed into Cinder and immediately capitalized on her proximity, using Miló to assault Cinder with a flurry of slashes and jabs until her arm was streaming bright-red blood, tatters of skin hanging off her arm, mixing the reek of coppery blood with the sharp scent of smoke. Cinder swore loudly, grabbing Miló, her hands wrapping around the blade. It was clearly painful— her teeth bared in a rictus, a terrible grin of agony, but she powered through, blood welling from her hands and running down Miló’s glimmering golden length as she seized the blade and pulled it towards her, forcing Pyrrha to move with it, until her back was to Cinder. With a howl, Cinder kicked her right in the spine, sending her to her knees. Another kick sent Pyrrha crashing through a spindly table into the stone wall of the office.

Groaning, she struggled to her feet, the cold adrenaline of battle surging through her veins. She was bleeding now, but by no means beaten, and as she stared at Cinder, stared into her fiery amber eyes, she was struck by a feeling of power, illimitable power. She didn’t think for a second she could win this— not she, mortal as she was, reckoned against the pure power of a season— but there was only one thought in her head: I am doing this because I have to, and it will be enough.

It has to be.

Cinder flew forward, dipping low to the ground before skyrocketing upwards, taking Pyrrha with her. They grappled briefly in midair, each strike sending a shockwave through Pyrrha’s Aura, and a brief flash of terror flickered through her . What if she couldn’t do it? What if her sacrifice was in vain, and she couldn’t cripple Cinder enough to stop her, what if she couldn’t save the Tower, or Vale, or her friends, or any of it?

No, she thought fiercely. It is enough, because I am strong enough! I was the candidate for the Maiden’s powers. I will stop her!

She delivered several hard kicks to Cinder’s face, making her screech in pain and release Pyrrha, who plummeted the floor like a dropped stone. Landing on her feet, she upturned Miló, throwing it at Cinder, who deflected it with a wall of fire that roared up out of nowhere. Pyrrha called it back to her side, charging forward in a run as Cinder landed, and used the momentum to flip the Maiden’s body over and slam her into the floor.

But she underestimated the strength of the other woman, and Cinder did a back-hand-spring, landing on her feet. Desperate now, Pyrrha hurtled forward again, slamming her shield into Cinder’s skull as hard as she could and crying out as Cinder delivered a retaliating, stabbing blow to her abdomen, but she did not recoil from it. Pyrrha hit back just as hard, making the Maiden stumble, and as she staggered back, Pyrrha smacked Cinder’s hand with the blunt end of her spear, and then ducked around to slash her other hand with the blade. As Cinder hissed in pain, Pyrrha spun around and stabbed at her stomach.

She retaliated, scorching a blaze across Pyrrha’s arm with a spear of fire. Crying out in pain, Pyrrha gritted her teeth and snapped around to attack again, but Cinder was quick, too quick; she reached out and gripped Pyrrha’s shoulders, dragging her forward like she weighed no more than a rag doll. Still holding on, her fingers digging into Pyrrha’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood, Cinder performed a backflip, knocking her into the air. Pyrrha righted herself midair, hurling her spear towards Cinder, who dissipated six fireballs to knock it away. A look of surprised annoyance flashed across her opponent’s face as Akoúo̱ quickly followed Miló, nearly bashing her across the forehead, and she ducked it. Pyrrha summoned both her weapons back as she fell from the air, hands pulsing with polarity.

As she landed, Pyrrha launched herself towards Cinder and put her in a headlock, tackling her to the ground. They turned in midair, grappling like two wild animals, fighting to be the one on top, and as they smashed into the ground, a cloud of dust plumed up around them.

Pyrrha took advantage of the thick swirling silt to tighten her grip around Cinder’s neck, feeling her swallow against the blade as she choked with the applied pressure.

“Get up,” Pyrrha rasped, her voice sounding horribly strangled as she staggered to her feet, still squeezing her grip around the Maiden’s throat. She could feel her heartbeat under her palms, the age-old bloodlust of the warrior, the urge to drive down on that heartbeat until it ceased to be. “Get up, or I will kill you.”

Cinder got to her feet in one fluid motion, not struggling against Pyrrha’s grip on her neck. “Kill me as you killed another tonight?” she whispered, laughing coldly. “Or does a body without a soul not count?”

“Penny had a soul,” Pyrrha spat. “It’s you who doesn’t.”

At that, Cinder stopped laughing, and they both paused, at a standstill, both seeking a way out of the position. Cinder suddenly stiffened, and Pyrrha turned to look at what had caught her attention.

The wyvern had been circling high above the Tower during their battle, and now— at her bidding, perhaps?— it circled around and suddenly shot forward, veering up at the last second and barely avoiding hitting the summit. Pyrrha turned back to look at Cinder, who had begun to shift her position during Pyrrha’s distraction.

There was a smile on her face, a cold, quiet, amused smile, like they both shared a mysterious secret, and she did not struggle against Pyrrha’s tightening chokehold. Her hands were curled gently across Miló, holding it as one would hold something precious— not gripping as they had before, so that the blade cut and sliced at her palms and drew blood. She was barely resting her hands upon the metal this time, but Pyrrha realized what she was doing moments before it took effect, and she was too late to stop her.

Miló snapped into unusable quarters of metal, just as Pyrrha had done to Penny, destroyed parts of what had once been whole and functioning. The edges were still glowing with superficial heat, and the pieces of her broken weapon clattered to the ground. Pyrrha staggered back as Cinder took advantage of her distraction to elbow her in the chest before hurling her body backward. She went flying, hitting the back wall with a loud cracking noise, her skull slamming backward and sending waves of darkness lancing across her vision. Sliding to the ground, she let out a low moan, her vision hazy. But even with the darkness, she could see an emerald glow suddenly suffuse the room, followed by a great ripping sound, the noise of stone being rended from stone. Blinking away agony, she looked up, and gasped.

She was not met by the sight of the circular roof, but rather, the great expanse of the snowy night sky, filled with a mixture of wind-torn shreds of cloud, and stars. There was a crashing noise from far below her, and she knew it was the roof— cogs, gears, and stones— hitting the ground, followed by the CCT’s transmitter. The wyvern had hit the tower, and with it, it had knocked off the roof of the office, and the CCT transmitter.

A burst of sheer terror exploded in her chest. No. No, no, no… I failed! The Tower… Ozpin said the Tower mustn’t fall, and it has…

But she could not continue the train of thought; Cinder was staring at her, fire bubbling up from her bloody palms once more. Pyrrha sensed she was not about to strike; she was waiting, so the first move was up to her. Staring up at her, seeing the power that she so obviously held and controlled with ease, Pyrrha felt doubt thrum through her. She had never been afraid she might lose  a fight— never. But tonight was a night full of new experiences, and pain was making her movements sluggish, slowing her blood, clouding her mind.

“This is folly,” Cinder said, shaking away blood from her arm impatiently, as if the wound Pyrrha had inflicted was merely an annoyance, a pest. “Star-child. Did Ozpin make you believe you were special? You were only ever a pawn in his game and mine. The only difference is that I am honest enough to admit it to you.”

Pyrrha snarled. “I know you’re a murderer. A liar. A traitor. You killed Penny and Ozpin without any remorse.”

Cinder smiled. “Even for one like you, the pinnacle of virtue, the strongest of Huntresses, you who manipulates fate even with your semblance… to fight a Maiden is to die.”

The only fate I ever controlled was my own. “You fought Amber once,” Pyrrha whispered instead. “When you were mortal, as I am. They told me. And you lived.”

Something like surprise flashed over her face, before cold cruelty replaced it. “A weak Maiden, such as Amber,” she growled, “had no mastery of her incredible powers, no chance, no chance of winning against someone like me. It was only right for me to possess them; I would use them in far more powerful ways than she could have dreamed of. And if I beat her without the powers, on my own merits… what exactly are you expecting to do here, when I am far more powerful than any mortal has ever been?” Cinder lowered herself to the ground, her amber eyes glowing. “If you leave now, there is a chance you could survive, child, but if you do not, there is none. Do you truly believe that tonight will go down as anything but the first tragedy of Remnant, the night a Huntress child died, the night Vale succumbed to what was stronger than it?”

“It’s not certain,” Pyrrha said desperately. “The Huntsmen and Huntresses might not lose. They could rally.”

Cinder smiled. “That’s a chance you could take,” she said. “But listen. They have come to Vale now, those who create the shadows between the stars. They are drawn to places of slaughter and sorrow. Can you see?”

Pyrrha looked out the windows, and so did Cinder, seeing the wyvern circling high above them, a great black shadow that blotted out the stars. All sorts of Grimm fell from the length of its body, Taijitus and Beowolves and Ursai and Griffons, howling as they tasted the blood and misery in the air…

While Cinder was gazing out the window, Pyrrha struck. She lunged for Cinder, driving downward with her weapon, pinning her and burying the metal in the flesh near her shoulder. Blood bubbled up from the wound, turning her red dress redder. With a shriek of rage and pain, Cinder kicked her off, flipping to her feet with true fury now burning in her eyes, fire spitting sparks from them.

She shot up into the air, her lips drawn back in a terrible snarl as she flung barbs of fire at Pyrrha, one after the other so quickly that Pyrrha could not dodge them. The office was ablaze now in a whirling inferno, fire crawling up the walls, racing across the floor.

Pyrrha rolled out of the way of two rapid-fire blasts of flame thrown her way, but she wasn’t quick enough as a third blast of fire smashed her in the chest, sending her tumbling backward. With a scream of agony, she slammed into the wall before springing to her feet as the floor beneath her caught light, embers spilling out across the ground.

If I can distract her and make her think I’m doing something other than what I am…

It was a longshot, but it was the only thing she had left. Using one hand, muscles trembling with the strain, Pyrrha concentrated on using her polarity to raise every ounce of heavy metal in the office. While she did so, she squinted through the rising wall of flame, lifted Akoúo̱, and with a deep breath, flung it through the rippling orange wall.

Cinder backhanded the shield away with ease, smirking at the apparently weak move and at the same moment, Pyrrha swiped her own hand through the air and sent every bit of metal toppling on top of Cinder, burying her under a shining pile of silver and gold.

A scream of rage echoed from its center, and Pyrrha’s eyes widened as it began to glow red-hot, like a massive ember. The metal began to melt and fuse, and then, with explosive force, one of the cogs exploded outward, bearing down upon her. Cinder erupted from the center of the melted metal, swooping upward like an angel in flight, and still the gear was coming, flipping end over end. She turned to flee out of the way, but she was not fast enough, and it slammed into her side, knocking her backward. It crushed her under its weight and she hit her back against the broken pillar of the office with a scream, sliding to her knees, barely managing to stay conscious as a black, jagged wave of darkness flickered across her vision.

And with all the strain she had put on it— using her semblance, not being fast enough to avoid heavy hits from Cinder— her Aura buckled and shattered. Pyrrha staggered, gasping under the sudden fatigue that overwhelmed her.

Cinder’s teeth glittered as she bared them, breath rasping harshly in the sudden silence. Pyrrha thought she might be laughing— laughing at the foolish Huntress girl, throwing away her life to buy her kingdom time. “Foolish girl,” she repeated. “Do you honestly think you can win?”

With her Aura expired, everything seemed fuzzy, her limbs suddenly weighed down by heavy exhaustion. She was mortal now. Every strike to hit her would leave a wound. She fought for breath, struggling to her feet, the question bouncing through her skull— but she already knew. Miló was gone, and only Akoúo̱ was left now; she knew she couldn’t win. That wasn’t the purpose of it. She kept fighting anyways, because she had to. For Amber, for Ozpin, for Beacon, for Vale, for the world, for Jaune. She didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, down to the last breath, even when she knew each breath could be her last.

“No,” she breathed, before running before and flinging Akoúo̱ out before her, one final stand.

[mysdrymmumbles]

Andraste’s Witch - Chapter 62 - SFW

Pairings: Slowburn Cullen x F!Witch!Inquisitor

Rating: M for later chapters which will include violence, PTSD, withdrawal,  angst, body horror (think red templars), and possibly other stuff that I will be sure to tag. This is not actually a grimdark story, but I just wanna give people a heads up for stuff that will happen. There will also be fluff and friendship and magic (though to be fair, this is Thedas, so magic will not always be positive and very rarely as adorable as that last statement implied).

Genre: Action/Adventure with elements of romance  

Summary: Cole tries to fix the pain in the people around him. 

Thank you to everyone who reads! Ya’ll are awesome <3

Chapter Warning: I tried to write from Cole’s PoV, lol. 

Andraste’s Witch (Ao3) 

Chapter 62 - Precious, Painful Pearls 

It hurts.

An itch in the back of the mind, a spider’s legs ghosting against skin. The feel of it gets worse if dwelt on.

Wrong.

So much is wrong and wretched and what if.

A word spoken in a different tone. A smile instead of a scowl. Humility instead of pride. So many ways that the path could have changed.

It’s not his fault, but he can’t see.

There’s a twist in the tangle, a knot that will be too tight if tugged.

Guilt.

Guilt that he could have helped, somehow, some way.

It’s eaten at him through the years, two memories dancing together, twirling interchangeably, reminding him how easily good can be tarnished and beaten away.

Two boys stand in a quiet corner of the Chantry, one with suspicion on his face, the other just frustrated. The first spends so much time, so much effort, fighting to be the best of what this place will make them into. The second sees that this place doesn’t want to make them better or best. It wants to make them compliant.

He sees the eye rolls and hears the, ‘He’ll learn’s when the first boy’s back is turned. They never say to his face that he is wrong, that mages are not people, that it is the public that must be protected, not them with their wicked curse in their blood.

But they think it, and they know he will too. Because he is good and loyal and follows his orders well.

The second boy is tired of seeing him stand so tall when he stands for nothing. Tired of the effort that everyone expects will be leached from him soon enough. They are not protectors. They are not heroes. They are bound.

Bound, bound, bound.

He shouts. He flings his arms open, blocks the first boy’s path.

Cullen, they don’t care!  You’re not going to be some knight in shining armor! You’re not going to save the day!

His words are too harsh, too pointed and cruel—even if the truth burns in them.

Burns bright like magefire.

Perhaps it is because that truth burns so brilliantly that the first boy refuses to see.

And I suppose you will?

The words are sharp as knives. More is intended to follow, but the boy with the blond curls and the ideals that shield him from the disapproving looks and jokes behind his back shuts his mouth and pushes past.

He should follow, make him see. This path was a choice for him, so he could turn back. The second boy has no way out, but at least he’s not a fool.

The first memory sometimes plays further, drawing out to the fist fight when Alistair tries to stop him, to the dark looks and angry glares cast from one face to the other as time tugs them forward, shoots them toward the sky like sprouting trees, though they can only flourish so much in the molds given to them.

Eventually, it gives way to its partner.

Instead of that idealistic youth, back straight, head held proud, a different creature takes his place. Shoulders trembling, eyes wide and wild, clinging desperately to whatever wisp is left of him as though it will be wrenched away with a wail.

You cannot trust them. They are monsters.

The words are not directed at him, but the change is so severe.

It hurts his heart.

And it scares him.

He tried to warn him, didn’t he? Tried to tell him that flaming sword was no shield.

Why hadn’t he been able to reach him? Had he knowingly spoken so harshly? An attempt to reason that would be shrugged off, a compromise with his conscience so that he could sleep better, knowing he was smarter, more understanding of the world than the precious perfect boy?

Even once the danger is past, the first boy—now a man—will not concede they are safe. Words that make Alistair flinch spew from his lips as he points to the haggard mages who remain, insisting they be put to the sword.

They are dangerous, they are monsters, they are abominations waiting to happen.

The little ones cling to robes, making themselves as small as possible, but Wynne, that woman does not even flinch. Head held high as the boy’s once was, she takes the bombardment of his words like a light breeze before suggesting the young man be given time to rest.

They have to drag him away.

He weeps.

Weeps for his words are going unheeded and he knows that danger will surface again.

Weeps because his warnings go unheard, just as the second boy’s warnings fell to deaf ears.

The brave boy cut down and twisted into a hateful man.

The thoughts dance together, twirling and stilling in hateful harmony.

Somedays, they do not surface. He’s gone months without them pestering him, but when they come back, he cannot help but wonder what he might have done, what might yet be done.

For years, it has tormented him on its whims and yet…

Yet now the dance has changed.

A third memory manages to interrupt that malicious waltz.

An older man, face gaunt and circles under his eyes. He holds his breath when he feels magic, but does not snap or move to squelch it. Instead, he looks sick. His mouth is a hard line, his brow pinched from pain—memories or injuries or both.

“The boy is gone and cannot be saved, but the man might yet be,” Cole offers as he sits beside Alistair. “It wasn’t your fault. Even if you had made him see that the templars were not great protectors, he would have joined them. He would have wanted to make them as they should have been. As he thought they were.”

A pinch in Alistair’s brow, a frown. He inspects Cole with a bit of confusion before blinking. “He always was stubborn, thinking the world was better than it was.”

“He would have been at the Circle’s fall, regardless of anything you could have done.”

The words are like a sunbeam on a cloudy day. They shimmer and shift, breaking through the clouds weakly at first, but they catch on his face, brow first. That pinch eases out, the crease never going away completely—it can’t anymore—and then the shadows under his eyes seem to lighten. “I suppose you’re right.”

With a smile, he reaches out and claps Cole on the shoulder before standing up, his burden lighter than it was. In an hour—if that—he won’t remember who told him that Cullen’s fate wasn’t a burden he would need to carry. Instead, it will be as though an epiphany hit him, that newest memory of the man too tired to hate falling in between the dance and breaking its partners apart forever.

There will be room for hope for a man who could have been a friend, had either of them ever really reached out.

Mirroring his smile, Cole watches him wander over to where Finley is.

She’s away from the campfire, back to it, staring out into the woods as though she’s looking for something.

Nothing good will come to them with a fire about. And she feels she’s been gone long enough that there’s like to be new things drawn to that cursed, flickering light.

Too bright, blinding through bundled branches, drying the air and making the cold catch in a cough in the throat.

She didn’t want it there at all, but she did not fight. This will be the last night she’ll be persuaded to let them have their comforts. They’ve made good time so far, barely over a week from Skyhold and already she knows the territory.

How odd that home could be such a short, hard ride away. It felt so much further.

A dream fading, the path lost as a tide washes it out, leaving no way home.

But she is.

Home.

There will be no homecoming with the fire—or with others with her—but this isn’t about coming home. This is about saving home.

Red. Black. Corruption. It was supposed to be gone. Supposed to be safe.

How far does the red lyrium reach from the temple?

Alistair said it started further north, near Kirkwall.

How is it spreading? How is it moving? Rocks don’t move. Isn’t lyrium a rock? How is it that it can be Blighted?

Or is it just that she wants it to be Blighted because then it’s something she might be able to figure out?

Or is it because if it’s Blighted it won’t be her fault when she can’t figure it out?

There’s no right way to approach this problem, and Alistair will die because she can’t figure it out. He wishes her good night, and she wonders if he will see the morning.

Everything is so…

“You should stay in the trees,” Cole offers as he sits beside Finley. She doesn’t jump, but he can feel her countenance shift. She’s more alert without showing it.

And it scares her that he knows this.

He wishes he didn’t scare her.

“The red follows the templars,” Cole begins again, motioning off into the night. “If it’s made it so far into the Wilds, then it would be wiser to be ready for a sweep.”

“We’d have to douse the fire,” Finley mumbles, fingers picking at her braid and forming a snarl. “And honestly, I don’t think it’d matter with red templars.”

There is so much fear.

Fear of the unknown and known alike. Of templars and the red, of the things she loves being tainted not by the Blight, but something just as hellish. The shadows could hold Corypheus himself for all she knows, and it makes her home feel foreign.

She doesn’t belong anywhere anymore.

Nowhere.

Except…

“I like the commander,” Cole says, staring off into the darkness. He can see little creatures, can feel their cautious curiosity at the light they dare not go too close to. “I think he would have found a way to come, if you had asked him.”

That makes all the worries draw to a halt, if only for a few seconds. Instead, warmth and soft caresses fill her mind, along with a longing for a touch too many miles away to be felt. Then she shakes her head as wicked worries begin to taint that calmness.

“We have to go into the part of the Wilds that still suffers the Blight. He’s already—”

Sick. Sick? Is it even…?

Will he be there when she gets back? Will he waste away? How long does lyrium withdrawal take to affect? How long does he have? She should have asked before she left, but she was too busy trying to think of the fastest way down to where they needed to go.

When he said goodbye, his fingers grazed her wrist, but nothing more, and she doesn’t understand why he didn’t kiss her. She leaned toward him, didn’t she? Why did he seem so hesitant? He wasn’t hesitant when she went to him the night before.

Doesn’t matter.

They are casual. He doesn’t need to kiss her if he doesn’t feel like it.  And he wouldn’t need to, even if they weren’t casual.

There is so much fear.

It ties Cole’s tongue, and he’s not sure how to approach it to make it better. Things are easier with most of the others. Their fears are isolated or little. Even a little fear can cause a lot of pain, but this…

She and Cullen are both bundles of traumas and heartbreaks, and whenever he picks a thread to try to pull lose, it’s so tangled with the others that soothing one fear reawakens four more.

“Do you really think he would have come?”

The question is small, barely a whisper. For a moment, he’s confused about whether he heard it from her lips or from her thoughts.

She is looking at him, though, expecting an answer.

Perking up a little, Cole leans toward her, nodding quickly. “He wanted to. He spent the night with you in his arms thinking of a way.”

Then why didn’t he say anything?

“He didn’t know if you would want him to come.”

“I don’t,” her response is quick, firm, and honest.

She likes to think of him far from the Blight, safe and warm, in his bed that can see the stars overhead.

Even so, a smile turns up the corners of her lips, her fingers stilling in the hectic mess they’re making.

Then she’s eyeing Cole, suspicious. “You’re not just saying that—”

“It wouldn’t help,” Cole counters, a little annoyed that she would suspect him of lying.

But then, she’s come a long way already, able to sit beside him without drawing away, able to look him over with a soft curiosity that pulls on other hurts he’s not sure how to address.

“You should talk to—Cullen.” Solas is who he wants to suggest before he catches himself.

Her demon’s left such a huge, poorly healed scar and for him to try to talk to her about anything spirit related…

It would be like plunging her into icy waters, and he’s not sure she’ll come out of that.

Not yet.

Maybe someday when she has less hurts to weigh her down.

“Can’t talk to someone who’s not here,” she mutters, already wishing he was. “I don’t imagine he’d appreciate a bird message.”

“Maybe if you showed him how it works before you sent it.”

She nods at that, picking at her braid again. There is doubt, but there is little he can do to assuage it here.

“Do you rest?”

It’s the first time she’s ever asked him this sort of question, and Cole is taken aback as he stares at her in wonder. Then, with an awkward ringing of his hands, he shrugs a little. “I can.”

“But do you need it?” Finley presses, mind suddenly focusing on him. There are questions tumbling in her mind, but he does his best not to latch on to any one. She is still afraid of being read so easily, even if he would only use it for good. His tongue all but tangles until he can finally remember the question that actually made it to her lips.

Focus, focus.

“Not really, no.”

Unnatural. Everything rests, everything gets worn, but not it—him. Him, him, him.

He smiles despite himself. She wants to believe he’s someone, and a good someone at that. It rattles in her head, tumbling against her doubts.

Unnatural. Not…right. Everything rests, everything—

Unless…

Does anything in the Fade rest? Perhaps he’s as he should be, if he were where he should be.

Her gaze wanders away from Cole for the first time since he’s sat beside her, toward Solas.

Talk to him.

The words burn in his mind, but he smiles instead, pretending as best he can that he doesn’t hear the internal struggle in her mind. He wants to help, but quiet is what she needs most.

It is surprisingly hard.

But it helps.

“So you don’t dream?”

The question takes him by surprise, which in itself surprises him more. He blinks. Once, twice. “No.”

“Is that why you don’t have magic?” Finley leans toward him now, head tilting. Her braid is forgotten. “You’re cut off?”

A tranquil spirit?

The tranquil scare her, but for him to be one might make them less frightening. After all, he can smile and respond with his own will.

“I’m not tranquil,” he objects, immediately hoping she doesn’t make the connection to the thought question and his summation. It doesn’t bother her.

“Or is the way people forget you a magic?” Her head tilts the other way, gaze fixated on him. “It doesn’t feel like magic, but you could hide that.”

“I don’t try, really,” Cole picks at one of his gloves, not sure if this attention is for better or for worse. Even Solas, who has always been able to see him, hasn’t given him this direct attention before. Perhaps because Solas already understands him. “I don’t know.”

“Do you miss the Fade?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “I can help a lot of people here, though. I like that.”

“Do you remember a lot about the Fade?”

Or is it a hazy home, memories taunting of a time before there was pain, of friends and family before the world caught up and swallowed you up in its realities.

“You want to know about spirits,” Cole whispers, despite himself. “You want to know if she could have been good before she came here.”

No.

Too much, too soon.

Finley is disappearing up into one of the trees before Cole can apologize.

She wants answers to questions she doesn’t want to ask, and he doesn’t know how to answer them without scaring and scarring. There are so many scars. She hides them and heals them and pretends that with the physical scab gone, so too is the memory. As though denial can unmake the harsher edges of her past.

She hurts.

Every heartbeat, every breath, every thought winds back to something wrong.

The Blight.

Lyrium addiction.

The mark.

Demons, monsters, templars. Mages with their suspicious glances, overly friendly smiles, friendship offered as a ruse.

Loss—

“Cole, would you care to help me tend to the fire?”

Solas’ voice is a soothing interruption that gives him something to focus on aside from Finley. Her hurts nag at the back of his mind, pushing him to find ways to untangle the mess, but at least for now, it is not too much.

Walking over to where Solas sits, Cole drops down beside him.

“Do you wish you’d stayed in Skyhold?” Solas asks, not addressing the spirit’s blunder.

“There is so much to do there,” Cole admits, but even as the words leave him, he is shaking his head. “A shadow, stealth and silence, too close to the mages, drawn in? No. No, this thing knows its way around. Summoned? How to find its master…an open investigation will have the mages at odds with the templars. Step light, step quick, find the culprit and handle it.” Slumping down, Cole shakes his head. “Lady Vivienne does not want me present.” He picks at the bottom of his shirt a moment before adding, “I don’t think she’ll believe that I’m help.” He glances back toward the trees for a split second, not where Finley disappeared, but where she rests now, curled up in the upper branches, safe from the ground. “Not without Finley’s assurance.”

“You will need to speak with Finley about that,” Solas states, voice calm, though there’s slight annoyance in his eyes.

Cole leans forward and pats his hand. “She doesn’t fear you. Just…her. She destroys everything she touches, and Finley doesn’t know how to tell you that. Not so you’ll believe. She worries you’ll try to help and draw her wrath.” Cole shudders. “She’s right to worry.”

At that, Solas cocks his head, brow arched. “You think?”

“She stopped being good a long time ago.”

“I’m aware that her essence was corrupted—”

“She devours her prey in pieces, takes the information she needs and leaves them broken and incomplete. A mother, a lover, a friend. She takes whatever she wants, Finley’s second shadow.”

“I know not to let anyone in.” Solas sounds offended.

“So did they.” Shaking his head again, Cole points toward the trees where Finley disappeared rather than where she is. “She believes what she’s seen. I don’t know how you can show her that you won’t fall down the same path, even if you won’t.”

“Neither do I.” Solas sighs, watching the fire dance in front of him, embers flickering up into the sky and reflecting in his eyes, making them glimmer red.

“You could always tell her the truth. She’d appreciate that, I think. And she’d keep your secret. With as many as she has, one more is not so hard.”

That earns him another arched brow and a look of mild reprimand. Alistair and Thom are asleep already, and Finley is far enough that she can’t hear them.

Even as Cole wonders if she’ll be able to sleep tonight—she doesn’t sleep well, even without the nightmare demon picking at her—Solas sighs again. “I do not believe our inquisitor is one to believe in legends.”

“She wouldn’t think you’re a monster unless you show her you are one.”

Solas blinks at Cole, surprised. Cole shrugs a little. “She’s terrified of me, but gave me a chance. She’d give you one.”

That earns him a sad smile.

They sit for a time, neither speaking, only the crackle of flames interrupting the quiet of the night.

No.

True as it feels, that’s a lie.

There are little skittering paws beyond the light, and larger things, moving quietly through the darkness, pausing to watch the embers before slinking off to the safer shadows.

There is tension here.

Fear of that fire, though not of its flames.

Fear of what the fire draws.

Cole shifts in his seat, glancing around. “Perhaps we should not have this.”

Solas blinks, puzzled a moment before noting the way Cole’s gaze has honed in upon the flames.

“You worry something will come?”

“Everything does.”

Solas lets his mind wander to the two sleeping in their little clearing—it’s not really large enough to be called that. The way Finley leads them, they avoid large open spaces, and it makes it tricky when making camps.

That won’t matter tomorrow night. No fire, no fear of setting the woods alight, though Finley would never let that happen.

Tonight, though, Alistair and Thom are drawn toward the warmth on their cots. Alistair looks tired and haggard, his dreams a myriad of memories and nightmares, of a song that shouldn’t be there just yet, and of Cullen and Finley and Thom.

He knows about the pretender.

Knows Thom isn’t who he claims.

Isn’t what.

He would have declared it outright, fought him for his honor, but Finley is so star struck with them both. And he doesn’t know what to say, how to say it.

Cole keeps it that way.

She can’t take another loss. Not now.

Let the other hurts settle and maybe…

Thom’s dreams are the same as they’ve been for years: children screaming, a mother begging for her little ones’ lives, abandoned men, and a new twist. A young lady, innocent and enthusiastic in this miserably dark world, looking up to him for his knowledge, for who she thinks he is. He sees her finding the truth a million ways, sees the way it crushes her.

The lie need not hurt her, too.

Cole will keep Alistair at bay as long as he can, but the rest of it…that is something Thom should have faced years ago.

It is difficult to balance these specific hurts, to let some linger and pick and pull gently at others, planting a hopeful presence in the echoing recesses of the mind.

He does it, though, fear to hope, fear to hope.

There’s so much he can do here that sometimes he hurts.

Sometimes it feels as though he is slipping away himself.

Fears and paranoia, the hatred it leads to.

It makes him sick.

But it is everywhere, and he promised to make this world better. He will. He can.

One fear at a time.

He’s still debating which fear will be best erased next for their group when Solas douses the fire.

[bbambi-deerest]

First Sign of Spring ^ [The Princes]

In which Bambi and the Great Prince say goodbye...

@the-greatprince

[tw -- death, some gore]

BAMBI: Bambi was on his way to class when he felt it. He felt it as animals felt the change in tide before a tsunami crashing down. It was a sickly foreboding that curled in his stomach like an acidic cloud of rain. He wanted to ignore the feeling, but it stopped him in his tracks. It entered in through his shoes and spread through the rest of him, that cloud becoming toxic fear—freezing him in place.

The trees to his left groaned as if in pain and Bambi felt it in his own heart.

Something was wrong.

His mother had always told him to trust that instinct of his, because that was what it was. It had never been wrong before.

This time, he did not need the herd of animals bursting into his classroom. No. Bambi was more in sync with the forest these days than he ever had been before. His self-punishment blossoming into a joy. How many people got two heartbeats, after all? He loved the feeling, even if it was so powerful it overwhelmed him more often than not. It was not a bad feeling. He imagined it was what it felt like to be in the presence of a god. Overwhelming and calming all at once.

Except now—now, it lashed out. It rumbled. It cried.

And Bambi knew.

For a few moments, he stood, frozen in that place, the fear as fierce as the feeling telling him run.

Then, his backpack hit the ground and there was the crunch of gravel and Bambi turned and headed into the treeline. He ran, faster than he’d ever run before. Longer than he had ever had before. It was the magic that let him do these things, as it pulsed through his blood and pushed the trees aside without a thought. The magic, which had healed his lungs from asthma and his heart from its murmur. The magic of Enchantra that had seen him grow strong in the last few years.

His feet pounded and his lungs squeezed, but all he heard was the weeping of the trees.

The Great Prince! they wailed. Hurry! Hurry!

Bambi did not know how long he ran, just that when he finally found his father, his whole body stopped as if he had suddenly hit a wall.

The Great Prince was propped against a tree, drenched in blood so profound Bambi could not, from where he was standing, pinpoint an injury. The Great Prince was so still, that Bambi did not know if he was alive.

The fear came back, clutching with its cold fingers at Bambi’s ankles.

Don’t be dead, he thought.

His father coughed.

That was enough to move Bambi forwards. He crossed the distance in a few strides, falling at once to his knees, tears falling at once from his eyes.

“Da,” he whispered, his eyes sweeping down his father’s body—it looked torn to shreds. Much worse than an arrow. There was so much blood. He was so cold when Bambi gently touched one of his cheeks. Bambi couldn’t find the words to say anything else—he was reverted to a child with a one word vocabulary. “Da, Da.”

PRINCE: When his son came, the Prince was dreaming of spring.

He could not remember how he had managed to drag his broken body out of the river, though he remembered the water’s gentle whisper, its hands guiding him gently onto the soft, dusty shore. He’d thought: Bambi. He’d been thinking Bambi as he struggled and failed to open the paths and lead himself home, but the forest had chorused around him-- first the river’s hands, next the forest’s warm arms, giving him a place to rest without the Prince needing to ask first. And so he had rested, as his strength ebbed from him like a morning drizzle. His eyes began to close and the chill crept closer. He did not know what the cold meant with his head too dizzy, full of Bambi and home. It only made him wish for the spring to come. It had been winter for so long.

He was not going to see the spring this year. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this and so his dreams filled with all that he loved from his favourite season: the first blush of flower petal, the whirr of the bee hives through the glen, the ripening of the peaches under the tree where the Prince and Willow would meet.

He dreamed of her too. She came to him in the springtime, and she was as the Prince remembered her-- a young girl of 16 with tumbling dark hair and apricot eyes. And in the dream, he was a boy again too. It was spring for the both of them. An ageless, sweet-smelling spring.

“I’ve missed you,” said Willow. She grinned, almost mischievous. “Let’s pick plums today, what do you think? ”

The Prince gave a worried sniff. “I’m not supposed to.”

“It’s okay this time.” Willow reached forward and grasped his hand. Hers was as warm as sunbeams. “Father Prince said so.”

The Prince’s face twisted. “You talked to Father Prince? You--- but he can’t know--!”

Willow laughed. “No, it’s okay! He said it’s okay. You’ve done enough work today, Little Prince.” Her eyes crinkled and she touched his cheek.  “It’s someone else’s turn now.”

Someone else…

And through the fuzzy golden hues of his dream, he heard a different voice, felt a different hand on his cheek, as warm as Willow’s. His eyes creaked open and the Enchantra of his present flooded in. It was not golden. It was gray, gray around the edges, cloudy in the sky, frost on the grass. His eyes struggled to focus but eventually he recognized his son.

Oh. He looked so much like his mother.

And oh. He was dying. Now, the Prince remembered. His heart cracked down the middle.

“Bambi,” the Prince whispered. His voice broke, the wound at his throat the worst of many. He tried to move a limb but found the frost had crept up both his arms. How cold he was now. There was very little time, oh, so very little time-- not enough for him and his son who had just found each other. It was still spring for them, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be spring.

“Bambi. Bambi. My son. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. A tear fell down his dirty cheek. “I...tried….”

BAMBI: His father’s eyes blinked open, wild and unfocused. He gasped as if he was coming up for air. Blood pulsed from the wound in his neck and dribbled hot as tears over Bambi’s fingers where they rested on his father’s chest, which was feeble and trembling behind its cage. Bambi’s sticky fingers curled into a fist as the Prince said his name.

There were so many questions—why and what and how and who and why, why, why? But none of them made their way out of Bambi’s mouth. None of them mattered. His father was hurt, the reasons could wait, but his injuries couldn’t. They had to get him to a hospital.

(Bambi knew there was no help for them here in this forest and he felt his heart turn against it—he hated each winding path that was too convoluted to get them to the hospital quickly, he hated each tree that stood in the way.)

I’m so sorry.

Bambi blinked and shook his head and shifted where he’d fallen on his knees so that he was closer, his hand going to his father’s. It was so cold, it felt like an ice cube—slick with water and blood.

“No, no. Don’t—” Bambi begged. Don’t apologize. Don’t go. “We’re going to—we’re going to fix this. You’re—you’re going to be fine.” Bambi blinked the tears away and smiled as best he could, squeezing his father’s hand. He didn’t even know if he was doing it for his father’s comfort or for his own. For he needed his father’s comfort. He was just a boy, after all. The world was still a place that he did not fully understand.

He needed his father. He had known it his whole life. He had been searching for him for as long as he could remember.

It wasn’t enough time. He needed him.

“We’ll get you help,” Bambi told him, his voice trembling. “Just like last time.” He moved then to unzip his sweater. He bundled it up with shaky fingers and pressed it against his father’s neck. But there were more wounds and there was so much blood. He could smell it, he could taste it. There was no familiar scent of his father’s—which smelled like pine and dirt and fresh forest air. The only thing was the cloying smell of death.

Bambi bowed his head, turning to rub his face against the underside of the arm that was extended, holding his sweater against his father’s wound. His other one had gone back to clasping his father’s hand desperately.

“What do I do?” he asked, feeling as small and frightened as he’d been when he’d first come to Swynlake with nothing left but a slip of paper in familiar handwriting.

What do I do? he had wanted to ask his mother.

“What do I do?”

PRINCE: There was nothing to be done.

Only a few minutes ago, when he first stumbled into the waters, this truth had panicked him. It was why he struggled, using all his strength to shift one more time, to pull himself from the water and try to find help. But the river had known before the Prince. The river, the trees, even the saplings budding around the trunk he leaned against now. These seedlings had little voices, but they knew better than any what it meant to return to the earth and wait for the sun to make it safe-- to grow again.

It’s okay, said the river, the trees, the seeds. It won’t hurt.

And it didn’t, not anymore. This was how the Prince knew that there was nothing more for him. No time, no time, only one place to go: back to the meadow. Back to the earth.

He tried to move his arm again. It moved slow; he barely felt it, though some of his wounds twinged and he winced. But he managed to grasp his dirty hand over his son’s and hold it for this last time.

Oh, Bambi was warm, full of that sun, that strength. The forest breathed with him. The forest would hold him when the Prince was gone.

“Bambi,” said the Prince again gently. “You must let me go.”

And this was the last lesson.  

He had wanted there to be more seasons before it came. Because such a lesson was hard to learn unless you saw it for yourself, over and over. They were supposed to travel from spring to summer to winter, to learn how to breathe slowly in the fall and sleep longer hours when the snow came. Fall and Winter taught this kind of surrender. Nothing could stay, not forever. But there was still beauty, wasn’t there-- in the curl of the crimson leaf or the first snowfall over a gently sleeping earth.

And it was never for forever, never.

But how could he teach a seasons-long lesson in a matter of moments? That was all he had now. He tried to muster the words. He felt a weight on his shoulder and knew it was his own Father Prince’s hand, giving him all the strength he needed.

“Everything has a season,” he murmured, his voice a rasp. “And this is mine. I lived… a good life. I saw… many sunrises. And now it’s my time to go.” He squeezed Bambi’s hand. His son was starting to grow hazy, the Prince’s eyelids falling and then blinking open.

“It’s your turn now-- if you want it. Only if you want it. Choose when I couldn’t, Bambi. You will be a good Prince if you want it, I know-- I hear it, in you, in your… you have your mother’s heart. A strong heart.”

The Prince’s eyes closed, his breath moving ragged through him.

“Promise me only… you’ll bury me where the peaches grow. Please.”

BAMBI: It sounded like bullshit to Bambi.

I lived a good life, said his father, but Bambi knew that wasn’t true. There was so much his father had not seen, had not done. He could see so clearly the wonder and longing in his father’s eyes when they’d watched Planet Earth. He knew his father would’ve loved to go to school. To have loved Willow with more time than they had had. He did not get to be a husband. He did not get to be a father for long, either.

All the Prince’s seasons cut short. This was not a peaceful death, his father was not dying of old age. The lesson was hard to learn when people kept being ripped from Bambi before their time. It was not the slow ease of winter, with autumn in between. It was deforestation, all the trees ripped out by the roots from his heart.

Bambi grasped at his father’s hand, like by doing so, he could imbibe it with his strength. Like he could give it to the Prince, like the forest had given it to him.

He didn’t want to think about taking his father’s mantle. It wasn’t his, it was the Great Prince’s.

(Bambi knew he would do it. His father trusted him. And Bambi loved Enchantra—like it was the grandparents he never had, old and wise and magical. It needed to be protected. If Bambi did not do it, who would? He just—wanted more time. There were things he still needed to learn. The last lesson was coming before the fifth and sixth and seventh and one hundredth lesson. How could he learn the last without all that came before it? There was still so much.)

Bambi reached to scrub at the tears on his face again. He sucked in a breath and then another. He did not wish to make his father’s last moments stressful for him. So, he did his best to stop the tears. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against his father’s. If he could not stop what was to come, at least he was here. He had not been there for his mother. Maybe, by being here now, he could be there for her too. Holding his father he was reaching back through time, holding his mother too.

“I will,” he said, “I promise. I’ll r-remember everything.” He didn’t just mean the lessons of the forest, but all the rest too. How his father had held him after prom. All the strange dreams that had let them be together their whole lives. He’d remember his father’s favorite jam and that he really liked Gilmore Girls. He’d remember sharing headphones with him, showing him new songs, and all the stories his father had told of himself and Bambi’s mother doing the same thing years ago.

“Tell Mother I’ll be fine, yeah? I’ll be fine.” Bambi lifted his head so that he could press his lips against his father’s hair. “I love you, Da. I-I’m so glad I-I found you.” Bambi shifted so that he could slip his arm around his father’s shoulders, holding him close.

PRINCE: He could see the flowers again.

They blossomed in the corners of his vision, through the fuzzy, swimming lines. They were of all different colours. There, the blue of cornflowers, and there the purple of the wisteria vine. The more flowers that bloomed, the warmer the Prince felt. The winter fell away--

And, for the Prince, it was spring again.

And where Bambi touched him, the pain faded too. The Prince realized at one point his eyes had closed again and he opened them so he could see his son one last time.

He has his mother’s eyes. Your eyes, he thought.

Willow was beside him now, curled against his other side. She held his hand and her finger stroked over the swell of his knuckles. “He does. But he is his father’s son,” she said. She squeezed his hand. “And he will be a strong and loving Prince, just like you.”

And in those last moments, the Prince saw more than just the coming Spring. He saw every Spring. He saw his son grow with the flowers, the seedling of magic inside him forging its roots deep into this soil, which would remember the Prince, too, when he was finally put to rest. He saw Bambi protect his home. He saw Bambi learn with the seasons. He even saw Bambi in love, Bambi surrounded by friends, Bambi-- never alone. He would not be alone, not like the Prince. He would live a richer life, a better life, and he would be wiser than the Prince, and kinder, and more understanding.

He’d create new traditions and new paths through the forest. It belonged to him now.

“Being your father…was the greatest privilege of my life... you are the best of me,” said the Prince with the last of his strength. He smiled softly. “I’m proud of you, Bambi.”

But then the Great Prince closed his eyes again. The pain was all gone now. There was only Bambi’s heart pressed against the Prince’s ear, and the heart of Enchantra. They beat with the Prince’s own heart so he was not alone either, not in this last moment, until at last the Prince’s heart let go the forest beat on without him, remembering the rhythm he had set.

BAMBI: Bambi felt the Great Prince’s heart stop, along with the rest of the forest. He felt the forest holding its breath. He felt the forest’s great heartbeat too, beating in time with the Prince’s—with his father’s. It got slower and slower, softer and softer.

And when the Great Prince’s heart stopped, for a moment, so did the Forest of Enchantra’s.

“No, no. Nonono,” Bambi sobbed and he fell back onto his ass, jerking his father’s body towards him, his fingers scrambling on his shirt. “No, no.”

I would like to tell you that it was graceful, dear reader, how Bambi took his father’s death, but it was not. He sobbed, great heaving sobs, his head down in the crook of his father’s neck. He felt his heart tear itself apart in his chest. The forest was shut out, he didn’t want to feel any heart beating if it was not his father’s—not the forest, not his own. He wailed, long and loud enough to startle the starlings from their nests.

He screamed until his voice was hoarse and his chest ached from the strain. He didn’t let go of his father all the while, even as he began to feel his blood grow cold and his own toes start to freeze as the sun began to slope down. Bambi wanted the sun to set, he didn’t want it to ever rise again.

Eventually, the tears stopped. Bambi felt rung out. There were none left to cry. Instead, there was just an empty vessel.

“Young Prince,” cooed Friend Owl, who had come to perch on a branch just above Bambi’s head.

Bambi looked up, blinking once, slowly. Another tear rolled down his cheek. Perhaps there were still tears left to cry. Perhaps he would never stop.

“It grows late,” Friend Owl said gently.

Bambi nodded and when he looked around the clearing—it was full of creatures: deer and squirrels, bears and wolves, Gummi bears and trolls. Gryphons and kelpies. All of them stood side by side. All of them watched, silently.

“H-help me,” Bambi implored, his voice shaking.

It was the gummi bears and the stone trolls that both stepped forward. They looked at each other, and then, one from each silently stepped back. Moving towards the Great Prince, they gently helped Bambi lift him from the earth. Together, they carried him into the trees and towards the eastern glen.

Along the way all manner of creature came, lining the paths. Their heads bowed. To many of them, the Great Prince was the only Prince they had ever known. Their parents and grandparents had all lived and died in the springs and winters of the Great Prince’s reign. For others, the ancient ones, the unicorns and the forest spirits, he was just one in a long line, the turning of the seasons himself.

In the glen, another stone troll stepped forwards and offered shovels to several of those with hands to grasp the hilts.

Bambi chose a spot beneath a bush, on which the first flowers were beginning to bloom.

They dug.

They lay the Prince gently down.

The beings of the forest covered him in all manner of things—pebbles, sprinkle of water from the river, from the dew of flowers, petals, ferns, bark, acorns, seeds.

“From this body, beautiful things will bloom,” Friend Owl said solemnly as Bambi placed the last mound of dirt back over the grave.

There was a moment where all stood, not even wind shook the branches of the trees.

The physical work done, Bambi took a breath and closed his eyes, shedding his humanskin. In its place was the tawny pelt of a deer, the white camouflage spots faded, antlers with two tines sprouting from his head.

“Come,” said Friend Owl, “we have much to discuss.”  

[chlnacat]

all the sad and lonely ones (2)

Chapter 2: The Fall of Grace and Glory Part I

The few days following his encounter with the Godbeasts are, in Richie’s eyes, rather dull. Maybe it’s for the best, because school has been awfully demanding and he finds himself rather busy. He figures that when you’re really busy, it’s better that you have less to do; that way, you have less to forget. As the days roll on he goes about his normal routine and waits patiently for something to happen, remembering that things will work out the way they are meant to and that it’s nothing he should waste time worrying about. Time wasted is time you never get back, and how much time did one person actually have, anyway? No one knows how much time they have, or what they can really afford to spare, and Richie is no different. So he doesn’t worry much about it, and fall progresses in sweaters and school bells. The leaves of the deciduous trees all burn red with autumn ember and weep to the ground like rubies. The northern winds carry the promise of winter’s kiss in every whisper. Everything was dying but it was not a time of death, rather, a period of mindful rest. It was time to sit back, and breath, and relax for a little bit, because come spring the ground would thaw and all things would born again. The wheel of time will once again reach 0 degrees and reset itself.

Richie comes home from school smelling like chalk, his hands silver and dirty with pencil lead. When Henry Bower’s sticks gum into his thick brown mop of hair and Richie almost cries, Bill comes over with a jar of peanut butter and helps him pull it out. Sometimes time feels like it’s bleeding slowly rather than passing at a consistent speed. It’s hard to tell the days apart, and all he ever truly knows is that he has plenty of homework to do, and that it’s really starting to get cold, and that he misses his friends when they’re not around, which has been often, hasn’t it? It’s one of those sad things you can’t really do much about, the way friendship becomes different when you’re older. Maybe everyone’s feelings are just more complicated now than they were when they were young and full of innocence and pureness. You grow up and lose that, your godliness and virtue. You grow up and suddenly everyone is lonely, and no one will admit to it or ever say or do anything to solve it. The loneliness comes crashing in like a swollen saltwater wave, one that wants to swallow you whole, and  there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Richie feels it now, low in his throat. He swallows his loneliness down like a pill, because he knows it’s a bad idea to let the birds of sadness stay long enough to build their nests in your hair.

On the day that something finally does happen, and Richie couldn’t tell you what day it was, he smells flowers. A fragrant floral aroma hangs heavy above him when he wakes up; he stretches and yawns. Golden morning sunshine pours in through the window on the east side of the house. The sun outside glows hot and red in the sky, just beginning to rise over the shingled rooftops lining Richie’s cul-de-sac. He climbs out of bed and opens the window, letting the cold air of November come in and kiss him awake, and thinks of how absolutely strange it is that even the breeze blowing in from outside smelled like flowers. It was typical at this time of year for the air to smell like a number of things, in Richie’s opinion; chimney smoke, burning leaves, baking pies, apple cider, frost and northern pines. There were all kinds of scents Richie associated with fall, and even the coming hush of winter; this strong floral aroma was not one of them.

Richie shuts the window, the apples of his cheeks slightly flushed from the cold air. He gets dressed and heads downstairs for breakfast and slowly forgets about the queer flowery smell, even when it follows him to school. His mind eventually just accepts it, and suddenly it doesn’t seem so strange, and if he can distract himself for a long enough period of time, well, he can’t even smell it anymore. Besides, it’s not like there was anything wrong with the scent of flowers.

He was getting ready for bed when things started to feel bit strange. All the muscles in his body had that odd sensation of being both tight and loose at the same time, his skin felt both hot and cold at the same time. He felt both sick but not sick. It’s the same sort of strange unease he gets when he’s coming up on acid, uncomfortable but not entirely unpleasant, a bizarre plane of weirdness right before your mind fully lets go and plunges you into your trip, a bizarre universe where you’re just trapped in your skin waiting for something to happen. He’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, feeling a bit washed out in the florescent light, when the minty green shine of the backsplash tiles suddenly seem much brighter. Yes, brighter, and softer- like they’re really small silk cushions and not really backsplash tile at all. They reflect the pale light in a way that just seems glitzy and retro. Everything in the bathroom suddenly takes on an enchanting soft, silky, ritzy quality. The shower curtain seems to move, seems to whisper to him, something he can’t quite hear, and the cool tiles of the floor feel so smooth beneath his feet that he almost wants to lay down and press his face into them. His bathroom has never looked quite so beautiful before, and as he stands here and thinks about how incredible and vivid the colors are in here, and how elegant and classy everything looks right now, like he’s a millionaire, a Beverly Hills movie star, he realizes that he’s definitely tripping face.

He’s heard of flashback trips, of course, and he’s trying not to let the fact that he hadn’t actually taken any acid bother him. After all, if life hands you a free acid trip, who are you to complain? If he had known more about flashback trips he would have felt that maybe it was an odd theory, because really, did he actually do acid often enough to have flashbacks like this? And did flashback trips always feel quite so strong? Again, when life hands you a free trip, there’s no point in questioning it. You don’t look a gifthorse in the eye, right? Clearly God was in this bathroom tonight, and God was looking out for him and  wanted him to be happy. He sits on hard the edge of the clawfoot tub for a good couple minutes, looking around and laughing. What a posh, glamorous bathroom he had. It was like something out of Better Homes and Gardens. He can’t get over the fact that he has such a nice bathroom; even the way the silver sink tap handles reflect light was soft, stunning, somehow luxurious. He’s laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, because, up until now, he hadn’t really looked at his bathroom like this. It had always been just a bathroom.

He decides it’s probably not such a terrible idea to get out of the bathroom, because truly, as grand as it was, he could think of a lot of other places he would rather spend his trip than in a bathroom. He makes his way towards the door, having to pause for a moment and look away, tears welling in his eyes, because the magnificence of the light bouncing off the glass doorknob was too much for him for a moment. It was such a divine sight, like a billion tiny diamonds shards, glinting and shimmering before him, twinkling with gaseous purity, and part of him felt like that kind of purity was inside of him too, and maybe inside of others he would meet along his way. The knob feels slick and oily to the touch. He opens the bathroom door and steps out into strange daylight.

He’s in a low, grassy meadow, brimming with flowers. The bathroom door behind him seems to have blinked out of existence. The fragrance that he had been smelling all day is present, more pungent than before, hanging thickly and sweetly in the air; but there’s more there, too, isn’t there? He can smell the sweetness of honey and buttermilk, mixing together with the underlying dryness of dead sea salt. The temperature and presence of the air reminds him of June, plainly and simply. The meadow floor is soft grassy green and pregnant with flowers that reach up gaily towards the sun. He can recognize quaking grass and crested dogtail shoots, as well as field lilies, their yellow bells incandescent with filtered sunlight. Patches of sweet smelling wild flowers bloom up all around and bob in a gentle breeze, some with stigmas pointed up towards the sun as though praising it’s glory and it’s lifeforce. Butterflies and bumblebees hover near him, bouncing from one flower to the next, their bodies fat and cheerful. It’s a very calm sort of place, and for a minute he just sits, and he can hear the cry of meadow birds and maybe, somewhere not too far away, the garbled babble of a stream. The ground underneath his is moist, but it’s not something he really seems to mind. That’s the thing about wet pants, and the scent of flowers. Once you get used to them, you don’t notice them so much.

The meadow is low and large, out skirted on three sides by a thick summer-green forest. The remaining edge is lined by a road, its asphalt soft and gray, running parallel to the meadow and winding off into some kind of far away place, a strange sort of quiet that Richie couldn’t see. He had a feeling he had no business with the road, regardless. At least for now. He spots something moving out of the corner of his eye and turns just in time to see a small white rabbit dive behind a scrub bush. It makes him smile, a warm feeling swelling in his gut. Slowly a pair of white ears peak out from behind scrub bush, and he can feel the rabbit’s gentle, timid gaze resting on him. He feels pleasant and relaxed in every sense of the word and yawns and pops his back, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to just lay here and fall asleep under a blanket of warm sunbeams. Yes, he could lay here and count angels in the fat milky clouds passing above him until he fell asleep on a bed of forget-me-nots, and it would probably feel wonderful, it would probably be the best sleep of his life. He yawns again, thinking it probably won’t hurt to at least rest his eyes, if not for just a moment, when a voice rings loud in his head. It’s the curiously pleasant voice of Mr. Pestilence; “If you stay too long, or if the fire goes out, you might not be able to get back to your world.” Sudden panic tears through Richie, claws it’s way up his throat, tasting of saltwater. The thought of sleep was a distant memory in his mind now. There is no fire out here in this whimsical daydream of a meadow. He has no way of getting home right now, even if he wanted to, and it’s terrifying and brings forth the powerful feeling of helplessness. As beautiful as this meadow is, he needs to leave, so he can figure out just what it is he’s come here for.

He begins walking now, scoping out the edges of the woods from behind the thick frames of his eyeglasses. The sounds of nature harmonize together and ring out to fill all the open space in this ragged flower paradise, and although there’s all sorts of life bursting around him, Richie can’t help but feel a lonely sort of feeling as he walks along. There’s a sadness and an emptiness that comes with not being able to communicate with the things around you, and he wishes he had someone who he could talk to, someone who would understand and who would walk with him in this strange green place, and maybe then he wouldn’t feel so afraid or so alone. It’s probably a silly and selfish thought in the first place; there’s someone else he has to worry about, isn’t there? There has to be a reason why he’s here, someone that he has to help. He can feel loneliness set in like an invisible fog, one that’s hanging in the air, clinging damp to his shirt. This place is gloomy beautiful, doleful June serenity bathed in memories of skinned knees and laughing children.

He can feel the warmth of the sun on his back like a jacket, and finally his seeking eyes land on a small mouth in the treeline at the edge of the meadow. Something tells him that that’s the place to be, that he really ought to go check that place out, so he starts meandering his way over. Although his feet are covered by only socks, nothing seemed to be hurting him; there was no pricker grass, or thorn bushes, or stinging nettles here in this flatland. He passes by a cluster of milkweed plants, some with their pods burst open like swollen bellies, puffing their white fluff outward like fat preening birds. He wanders past a rather large blueberry bush, where he stops to pick some of the berries. They’re plump and dark and perfect; their taste is just the perfect balance of sweetness to tart, just as a blueberry should be. In fact, Richie thinks they’re probably the best blueberries he’s ever tasted. Their flavor explodes vibrant on his tongue as he pops them between his teeth, juices staining his lips and fingers.

He manages to regain some sense of self control and pull himself away from the fruit bush, his eyes still resting on the opening between the trees that lead into the forest. More birds call out, soaring over his head. When he finally reaches the mouth, he finds a path of fallen pine needles leading deep into the thicket of trees. The leaves overhead, and the sunlight raining lazily down the open spaces between them, create a dazzlingly and gleaming dark emerald canopy. The smell of fresh flowers is slowly replaced with the smell of pine and bark and Richie’s mouth tastes of milk. The forest noises converge and orchestrate a symphony; they tell him the tale of a warm day in mid-June, a day where it was supposed to rain but never did; the skies had been clear and blue and the people had rejoiced, their laughter ringing. Sunlight was power and a gift to the land. The forest was familiar and home to many creatures, great and small. As Richie walked he began to understand the story of the trees, he began to understand what they were trying to tell him in the way they pointed their leaves and curled their mighty roots. He sees more rabbits, their small white bodies scurrying away from his noise, and in a quick moment catches a flash something large and white, moving behind the trees. It’s only for a second, of course, and then it’s gone, like it had never existed in the first place.

Richie isn’t sure of how long he travels along this pine needle path. The trees rising around him feel safe, and as he wanders deeper and deeper into the unfamiliar woods, he’s filled with odd nostalgia and a strange sense of purpose. As the path winds down into a valley, flowers begin to bloom beneath his feet again, deep purples and magentas and shades of buttery yellow. He comes out into a small clearing, blinking as his eyes readjust to the sun.

Sprawled out on their backs atop the fresh and gentle sweetgrass lay two small girl angels, their intestines spilling out from large tears in their stomachs and clumping together in a bloody knot on the ground between them. Aside from this carnage, their intensities laid out, tied together, the angels are lovely. Their skin glows effervescent; it’s creamy, peachy pink, blushed with sunlight. One of the angels has golden locks of hair, bouncing curls that tumble down and land just below her shoulders; the other’s hair hangs in a similar fashion but was a deep, mousy brown, similar to the color of Richie’s own hair. Atop their heads rested crowns of thorns and purple-pink and white dahlias. The loose dresses they wore also matched, hanging from their shoulders like greek robes; the angel with the darker hair was dressed in blue, the other pink. Both their wounds ran vertically down their stomach, staining their dresses, and their spilling intestines stains the sweetgrass below with their blood, little pools and spatters that seems oddly innocent in the deepness of the afternoon

For a moment Richie stares at these vored angels wonders and if they are dead, and who had hurt them and why, and was starting to feel awfully sore about the whole scene, because really, who wanted to come across a pair of dead, vored angels? But then the angel with the mousy brown hair sits up and looks at him curiously, her pale blue eyes catching in the sunlight. She nudges the form next to her, but the blonde angel seems to be sleeping. She nudges again, and this time, the blonde angel stirs, sitting up and wiping at her eyes.

“Alright, alright, what’s going on?” The blonde angel asks sleepily. “Can’t a girl take a nap?”

“Grace, over there. It’s a boy.”

“A boy?” The blonde angel turns to look at Richie now, and he can see for the first time that she’s blind. Her eyes have no color to them, no shine; they are simply milky white and cloudy. Richie gets the feeling she can somehow see him anyway. Surely a creature as magnificent as an angel wouldn’t be handicapped by something as trivial and human as a bad set of eyes.

“Hello?” Richie calls out to them, hoping that his voice sounds upbeat and cheerful. “My name is Richie. Are you two alright, there?”

“Oh, I have a bit of a stomach ache, but I’ll live,” The angel with the brown hair tells him. “We had just laid down for a quick nap in the grass, it’s always so soft... I’m sorry if we’re in your way.”

“Oh, no,” Richie tells her. “To be honest, I’m not fully sure where I’m going. I might be a bit lost- really, I’m not sure.”

“If you’re not sure where you’re going, what are you do wandering around in the forest? Don’t you know all kinds of creatures live out here?”

“There’s someone out here that I’m supposed to be finding, I think,” Richie tells the angels. “See, I came here from somewhere very far away, and I have to find someone with a story to tell me.”

“Oh, we have a story, don’t we, Glory?” The blind angel perks up, and her golden curls bob as turns head towards Richie and seeks him out with her milky eyes. “I’m Grace, by the way, and this is Glory.”

[old-levied-blog]

The Reel

The Reel (Lifelines amended) Peter J Scott

©  

All the characters in this book do not exist but in the imagination of the author, and have no relation in any way to anyone bearing the same name or names. Furthermore they are not inspired by anyone the author has, does know, or is unknown to the author, and all the incidents herein are pure invention. The text of this book or any part thereof may not be reproduced by any means, or transmitted in any form be it electronically, or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, storage in a retrieval system, or otherwise without the written permission of the author. This book is sold subject to the condition that it may not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise distributed without the prior consent of the author in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without similar condition, including this condition being imposed upon the purchaser.

Copyright  Peter J Scott 1962 All rights reserved.

Because of Floss:

I feel the need to write again, It’s not important what I pen, But to rewind a tangled mind Onto a reel…

Poetry written from 1960 until Jan 2017

Too Many People

Too many people walking all at once, Pushing-by each other, Too many people walking all at once, Another and another.

Jerusalem

The place is where a requisitioned ass Passed by olives weeping, And seeping sand fell down In cruel heaps, Positioned in short reverence. And I am here, Walking among the debris, Not wishing to be disturbed, As the camera in my mind Clicks on.

Printing

Tracing a slate-strewn skyline, Outlining a soot-soiled shape, Black industrial ugliness, Where a dreamer dreams of escape.

Trapped in a failing factory, As whitewashed as its walls. The hissing of printing-platens, Like metallic waterfalls.

Cracked tiles and charred chimneys, Dominate dirt-streets below, Where I squat on the summer-pavement, Until the hard hooter’s blow.

Making a monotonous living, Mind occupied elsewhere, Germanic machines pulsating, Wiping the window to stare.

Observation

I witnessed an old man Wave at a passing crowd, But they ignored his wave, And I felt rather sad.

He glanced down - embarrassed, I could see that he felt bad. Growing older as I watched him Walk away - head bowed.

Is it Christmas Yet?

Hey! A dead rabbit’s in the road, Squashed, And the road with rabbit’s blood Is awash. No one bothered, Or upset, Except me… Is it Christmas yet?

Hippie

Bled Blood red, My cut head. Factually Dripping drops of verse. I was a bleeding dream’ist, Who preyed on sleeping rhymes. I was an extremist, With a vampire’s curse.                       Actually,                     Mad, not fad.                 Too bad                   Lad.                        

Kind, But blind.                                 Misaligned. Consistently My spectacles did rust. I thought I was a socialist, But I got bluer every day!             A cycling vocalist, Whose bike got bust. Persistently, Poetry, Let me See.

Cup and Ring

This pub where I sit searching thoughts, Typically English, Belongs to the working-classes …and my spirit flinches.

Coarse language saying - ‘Look at me!’ Vowels littering the floor, Red lights gloating on empty heads That I cannot deplore.

Am I as ‘Them’ and nothing more? The fact is I am worse! Under a spell of ignorance, I cannot break the curse.

Woodbine smoke from callused hands, A glass stained with her lips, Wrinkled eyes, with sallow skin, Old woman sits and sips.

Skylark

One silver skylark, Sings beneath the sun, Sings beneath the sun, In solitude and sunshine, As sky-bound sunbeams run.

Clouds brush his burnt feathers, Then float away, Then float away.

He’s

Singing in suspension, With everything to say.

Glen Stream

Glen gorge-winder      Swiftly grows,            With peat-platted ribbons                  Weaving by.

Speaking quickly   Dark stream flows,         Murmuring over rocks               Where dippers fly.

A shallow foaming coldness,     A twisting tousled timeless place.          I contemplate beside you…               Gone to the glen to hide my face.

DTs

I think ‘T’ knew That his proud pen Played with words to spite his eye. He, Dai, Blew Bubbled blood… When he could. He, Dai, Made the breeze blow wet and dry. On inky fen, He breathed black dew.

A soulful sight Down by the sea, Writing “Milkwood” by the shore. Now no more. Right, to leave behind Legacy mind. Shite? Now no more Mad gnawing at his core. Alcohol Put out his light!

Simon - age two

My Son Held a rose in his hand, And I Called his name.

Then I Glimpsed his innocence, And yet I called again!

Walking in the garden Of infancy, Embracing time As a friend.

Speaking without Wisdom, Unwise Do we end?

Simon - age eleven

My Son tends to lounge on the floor! No matter what I say, He ends up prostate… His feet up the flue. What can I do? (It’s one of my traits).

Simon - age thirteen

We make aeroplanes, And talk of B.M.X’s, My Son and I. Thirteen and growing, And laughter showing; He loves me.      

We share our thoughts, And make rude jokes, My Son and I. Thirteen and growing, And me not knowing My father.                                  

Snow

The snow that fell in April Took us by surprise, And though it dulled the morning’s breath, It lit my children’s eyes.

Snowdrifts set in by evening, Traffic moved no more, Dead echoes filled a starless night, Stillness stood at the door.

Boots lay on steps, abandoned, Wet clothes deserted lay. I watched fun-footprints disappear, That snow-spring child-chilled day.

Grey Day

Morning sleeps Slush painted grey.

Blankets of ice, Bedeck his thighs.

Sheets of sleet, Sedate his day.

Longed for spring Seems

Long away.            

Gwithian

Across a cliff-clung field a purple shawl Extends under a ruby sun. Here upon these Cornish cliffs The twilight has begun To blur the cobalt seas slow rise and fall. Seagulls mock me, Glued to ground, Mobbing and milling above my head. Red sky is pierced, Its blood is earthward shed, As sun and shore infuse with sound, ‘Till, tide-bound, Echoes drift to ebb-away at sea, As day stops striving for a while, With dusk melting each milk-mist mile, And sky-ghosts tire of teasing me, Cape-captive, One alone that stands Above this granite gyve, This sun-bleached sand.

Return

For old time’s sake we returned To where our memories burned… And found it strange?

Sweet stream runs bitter now, Walls broken down, and how                  Cruelly      Arranged!

We walked a remembered lane, Things were not the same again, Had we changed?

Insomnia

The night is hot and in my room, I range across a crumpled bed. Windows wide in airless eve, Street sounds simmer in my head.

Sleep disturbed by daunting dreams, Confused by what is real - it seems I’m angry with myself - but why? I twist upon my bed and sigh.

My wristwatch whimpers –‘It’s not day’, I rise to glare into the street, But nightmares will not trot away, They rear and snort, so I retreat...

To turn my pillow once again, And feel cool linen on my face, Until seared senses softly scream… Ignite into another dream.

SOS

Wrecks lie submerged, Surfacing in dreams, Sunk in adolescence.

I sleep unaware, Fitfully it seems, Then run aground.

Trying to swim, Drowning midst beams, Soul ship-wrecked.

Fears dredged deep, As rip-tide deems, Mind water-logged.

Sheets have formed seas, With seaweed seams. Launch the lifeboat!

Jowett Pond

Beneath the surface of the pond Childhood memories stirred. Bulrushes silken-sepia stood, This place burnt-boys preferred.

I dipped my hand to chase a fish That swam toward my feet, But it escaped beyond my grasp… And yet that move was sweet!

For once again escaped to child I played within a pond. Caught in a whirl of waterweed, Within a childhood bond.

Bolton Abbey

Scents of autumn soak the air As river sweeps through stepping-stones. A wooden bridge beckons us where A heron cracks cold crayfish bones.

Such stillness born on shortened days Finds wishes wished on copper strands Falling as jewels from midst the grey, Pursued in flight by infant hands.

Detached

My sea rolls ever slow today, The sky hangs overcast and grey,          And evenings called too soon.

My senses are somewhere afloat, They’re drifting in an oar-less boat,          That rides a rising sea.

Salve-sunbeams have all dived and died, This ocean stretches ever wide,          Life gently bobs passed me.

My sea rolls ever slow today, The night enfolds a castaway,          And suffocates the moon.

Departure

Solace was found in solitude, In the wind, In the spring, In the green. Where a plough sows sky With seagulls,

I

Alone was seen, With a curlew’s Convivial company, And only Soft sky In-between.

Temple Newsam

Autumn has arrived again, And as before He put his foot Inside the door of summer. Broken branches hurled up high, Where chestnuts cling Midst mist and sky, And other signs... That signal I am older now, That whisper when The rooks’ allow A word in edgeways.            

Detached

Gentle evening edges out, The willow rests, His branches bowed, Weary of the sapping sun And I, the noisy crowd.

Rawdon Billing

Loneliness pursued the child, Who wondered where the flowers grew wild.

He played in fields where plovers flew, And where the whispering grasses grew.

Among the ferns he hid his face, As swallows skimmed his hiding place.

He watched the diving-beetle swim, Wild-water would envelop him.

But loneliness pursued the child, And taunted when he sometimes smiled.

Mr Babble the Insurance Man

He spewed out stress from deep within, Contaminating everything, Sweating, shouting, exploding eyes, Gesturing, exuding sighs.

Then calmness would somehow prevail, As bluster became blocked from sail. Until some strain stretched out a nerve, And pulled off course his sense would swerve...

...to strew the alphabet around; A spluttering strangulated sound. Swearing, slighting, angry, annoyed, A pale perplexed, pained, paranoid.

Fog

Fog had erased the Street’s blackboard, Swept of lamp-light by God’s broom, But I lit up the road with my ‘Miller’, Full beaming into the gloom.

I road on unfettered by worries, I biked like a cyclist insane, I followed tyre-tracks back to childhood, And polished the saddle again.

Cutter Grinding

Dodging hot dust for a living, Pretending to be an engineer, Sharpening cutters on the night-shift, Sparks showering my right ear.

Coarse coat stained with hot lubricant, Clean cuts covering soiled hands, A Thermos filled with cool coffee, Gratifies this grinder’s demands.

Across the Works yard to the washroom, I stand in the new night air, Sharpening a seconds silence, Moments that matter are rare!

The canteen is almost deserted, I lie on a table to sleep. Soon a buzzer brings scowling to Solo, Flock back to the Tool room we sheep.

Shrill shouts as a rheumatic finger, Is sliced off to a profane appeal, A splinter of bone is adhering, To a gruesomely grist grinding-wheel.

A dustsheet shrouds the dead ‘Shutte’, Until the Inspector appears, We night-shift grind on in caution, (My father is sharpening his shears).

Mormonism

Words droned on, Members nodded, Service plodded, Heavy heads, Vacant faces, Empty places, On we sat, Bottoms flat, No point in that!

Miscarriage Bingo

8:00pm chimed disappointment And a shock, Birth-time was stranded, One number off a cuckoo-clock!

Tears narrated bitterness, And a shock, One second landed One number off a cuckoo-clock!

Pained proof was too incredulous, And a shock, Sent two minds reeling, One number off a cuckoo-clock!

Lost months unacceptable, And a shock, Three numbed of feeling, One number off a cuckoo-clock!

Grandad

My granddad has a bulbous nose, That’s stuffed with money! Funny? No! And I’ll tell you why it’s not, It’s pitiful pensioner’s snot!

He stuffs it with bread because he’s rich, Cut-sliced brown bread up his snitch, Good grief! Huh! I wish he’d blow his golden nose, Into my spotted handkerchief!

Promotion Prospects

Successes scent has disappeared, Whilst I was chasing in despair, Over the hill.

His footsteps seemed so close, And then, He raced off with some other men.

I thought I sensed him slackening, I reached to somehow grab his coat, But then felt ill.

He flung some worries at my feet, I stopped, Breathless in Stressful Street.

Successes scent has disappeared, I’ll rest and hope he’ll reappear, Perhaps he will.

When I feel fitter and less afraid, I’ll catch him Sleeping in the shade.

Three Sisters’

Above the moor one plane-tree stands, Diseased with dead rheumatic hands. Two sisters died beside her throne, Naked, now she reigns alone.

Stately they ruled that star-crowned hill, Betters of bracken, gorse, And those lower than guardians of the air, Small boys like me, who dwarfed, did stare.

Poetry written in Western Germany:

Deutch TV Documentary

I watch the harrowing scenes of pain, Surviving Jews, their suffering faces, Returning respectfully to places, Where they were tortured and transported.

Was it here where forests fly their golden flags? That corpses lay unnoticed in the street, And mass graves welcomed the unwanted, Whilst evil echoed marching feet?

Was it here where deer dash and lizards lie? That fear was free to be inhuman, And sewers were shelters underground, Whilst gas stilled souls without a sound?

I watch the harrowing scenes of pain, Men lingering where their families fell, Pondering the terrorised truth, Unthinkable, unspeakable, Hell!”

Hydenweg 10

From Russia marched a charcoal sky, It grilled the forest, burning black, As angry angels came to crack Silvered-steel whips.

The grumbling Giant overhead, Trod with such a sombre tread, That all the tears in heaven were shed, In single sobs.

Then he somehow strode away, As blackbirds sang in sniffing sky, And angels dried each glistening eye, With rainbow.

Homesick

I miss the nearness of the sea, To stroll upon its saline shore, To shout as broken breakers roar, Over sand.

I miss the freedom of the moor, To wonder where my spirit wills, To walk the paths and gentle hills, Of England.

Buchenwald

This place is not at peace, Its beauty has been bruised, Withering winter memories, Still fused in every bird-less tree, Moving endlessly.

Snow touches tall pines, As in silvered-days before, But now, sadly it’s falling, As if it’s recalling, How it clung to those being killed, As their suffering was stilled.

Hessich Oldendorf

Forests flush a hundred hills, Where helicopters hurry, Blittering’ where buzzards blow, Blattering’ descending low, Mid blossoms of white cherry.

Hameln

False facades hedge Hameln’s steeple, A town refaced, But not its people.

BFPO 29

They dilute their lives in lager-beer, Loves drowned out here, Among these wire-wooded hills.

Dreams dissipate in tax-free gin, Wives have their fling, Where the Wesser winds around.

Driving

Driving to work Mindlessly, When over the hill, Suddenly! Sun underscores the heavens, Beautifully.

Clouds form damson plums, Endlessly. I glance in the mirror Automatically, Driving to work, Restlessly.

1663

Black-lashed poppies - clumped and crimson, Flames amid the whitening wheat, Burning where sharp shrapnel-showers, Burst from midst the searching heat.

In these fields where cannon clattered, Thousands fell on Hessich hill, Black-lashed poppies clumped and crimson, Black-lashed poppies standing, still.

Wealthy

We have a marble Staircase, Six bedrooms, Parquet floor, But I don’t smile, Like I used to do before.

Minden Road

Night heron, Black-bat like, Flew up from the wet road, Legs trailing.

I drove on, No confidence, To sell insurance Car tailing.

I envied, His nocturnal flight, Somewhere sane, Unfailing.

Return home:

Hospital

I see my fragile father ill, So small, And still refusing help.

He looks so hopeless holding on, All his manly-moments gone, Forever.

I try to touch his tortured mind, But the wretched years unwind, Tangling us.

Stroke

Summoned by love my heart was led, To find her in a sterile bed, Slurred-speech from midst a spittle face, So unaware, with matted hair.

A Stroke her dignity’s defiled, Her mind is battered back to child, She cannot tell why she lies there, I kissed her brow - smiles crooked now.

Tired

I grow weary, Weary of the whir of words, Sing me a lullaby of silence, Let me rest.

Rock me in a cushioned cradle, In some secret sheltered place, Where the World wants for admittance, And smiling down - a mother’s face.

Dad Dream

I saw him from his hospice bed, Slow rises and shuffle to the phone. His gaunt frame clothed in yellow skin, Tightly binding up his bones.

His crooked fingers found the dial, But whilst his hands obeyed his will, His brain could not fulfil his need And all the while real time stood still.

I watched him struggling with that phone, My father, soulful, seeking aid, He did not see me at his side, Nor sensed the gulf was not so wide.

Then we were lifted from that ward, To a familiar woodland-walk, Where deadened was his dragging pain, And I found I was a boy again.

We strolled among the Sunday-trees, Where he expressed his love for me, Something I’d never heard him say, Last words I knew would fade away.

I felt a boy, but was a man, So much I did not understand, And as we walked towards the day, I held on childlike to his hand.

We stopped - I gazed upon his shell, Amazed to see him young and well, I knew I’d waken soon and so, I kissed his face - then let him go.

Rich Man

When he is loved no man is poor, His wealth cannot be measured, Nor his worth be weighed against All the riches of the earth. For love cannot be bought, Grow old, or be caught in nets Woven with threads of purest gold. True love endures when we have gone, Goes on, and on, and on, and on…

Day

Today is a waiting-day, Why? I cannot tell!

So subdued by stars I’ll sit and wait, My head within my shell.

Debt

It seems that we may lose this house, For debt has called to take away What we hold dear.

The cats’ fight for the fireside rug, And music shakes the worm-worn stair, As wolves draw near.

We take each day for what it is, Another step towards the edge, I cannot look.

Somewhere, someone, decides our fate, A dreaded summons come to bring, Me to the Book.

I’ve done all I can think to do, I feel so helpless and afraid, And so ashamed.

The clock ticks on and will not stop, Night laughs at my pathetic rest, My heart is drained.

My faith still breathes, but shallow now, I humbly take what I can get, Or somehow, do without.

Leaving

One of our birds has flown away, He took some love to line his nest, To help him through the winter storms, When warmth shall flee His chosen tree, To set a Survival, Test.

Soon another chick will wing her way, For growth dictates it shall be so, When as their full flight-feathers form, We brood no more, But watch them soar, Keeping hold, By letting Go.

Douglas Dakota C47

From distant hills would drift the sound, A radial-rhythm in the sky, At once I’d know a 47, Was growling down to earth from heaven.

Dakota, dawdling into view, ‘Silver City’, or ‘BKS’, Blue, or red, ‘Air Lingus’ green, Hot-house jolting, joy machine.

I’d watch its strutted wheels come down, Round yellow eyes, full-beam ahead, I’d trace it banking round to where Its flaps would stab into the air.

Rooted beneath the landing-lights, Wide eyed, I’d drink its deep descent, Until it’s shadow swiftly fell free, And rooftop roaring gently shook me.

Then swirl of air... a second’s silence. A skid, a squeal, a rattling rumble. A rev’ of engines, a number jotted. A routine landing, a boy besotted!

Nidd Flier

Iridescent, but blue, I saw him at last! The kingfisher raced by, And screamed as he passed. Down the river he streaked, A colourful crier. Small wonder he shrieked: His rump flamed with fire!

Floss Tired

She rises early, And to her tasks She creeps. Compelled to Work for those She loves, Until the day Is dead, When she Leans her weary Head upon her hand, And sleeps.

To be read at my funeral

How will the gentle-judge judge me? When tentative, I stand afraid, As memories dredge my moat-ringed mind, To float bright-boats of foolish years, When wide horizons filled my thought, And I slayed dragons, fearing naught.

What shame hung out for all to see? What filth? What guilt? What angry shout Will be sung-out to trouble me When deaths sunk opportunity.

Can I but hope that when I’m dead? In mitigation will be read A list of souls whom I did love ...and one containing (hard to see), A few, who, unconditionally, Loved me.

Two am

Why do I still labour With One-thirties ink and paper, Whilst my wife slumbers upstairs? ...who else cares but Floss?

As the World knows not, Then what is the point Of my solitude, And sleeplessness?

Maybe at 2:00am I’ll meet a lone man, And write with him.

Yours faithfully, Peter.

Storm

The Storm has drained his soul today, Stilled and spent he’s blown away, To leave us here in this tall house, Safe from his unsettling cries, To dream of days of setting suns, Where we can rest, spirits to mend, A place to start - a place to end!

Good-bye

If I fade first A vestige of my words I’ll leave, To whisper when you feel alone. I realise that we both shall grieve ...has Hades got a telephone?

Floss

The golden star around her neck, Can never shine as bright as she, Nor fulsome words tarnish the truth, Of Hebrew femininity.

CCU

Warm water in a plastic jug, Feet cold. Wires tugging at the heart of me, Connected to eternity, And a bold, ‘Bleep, bleep’, Keeps me awake.

White-watchers wander In and out, With dedication (and some without!).

A taste of tea soon tinkled up. My curtains have corn (and a buttercup!)…

Apart

When I’m asleep my spirit flies Across the separating skies, With her to stay.

It lingers by her lonely bed, Cradling soft her sleeping head, Until the day.

Then before she starts to rise, It kisses both her lips and eyes, And slips away.

Vanished Vicar

In the Church there’s still singing, But the bells have stopped ringing, For the sake of his shame, And his tarnished name.

For our priest’s disappointed, Defiled whilst anointed, And in this tiny place, It’s a far fall from grace!

My Daughters’

Now they’re loved by other men As well as I, And well I love them still! But why despondent pine? Because my love’s stepped by, And from further down the line Observes the spot That once was mine!

New Nana

She nurses Beth when she’s needed, And tries not to love her too much, Because it’s hard to mother a baby, When a heart can look but not touch.

So she cradles Beth for her mother, The child of her child, born with pain, And I watch my Woman giving birth, Again and again and again.

Beth - age one

She shouts a lot This little tot, And points, and grins Six pain-cut teeth. And ‘though the gods’ Translate her speech, In truth I can’t discern A word, And so I stow Each Jibber-jab, And kiss her head. Just thankful that She talks to me, Before she Goes to bed.

Jaque a Mate

My friend is black! Try as he may, He cannot Put the game away.

I cannot change His coloured cast. Promote his pawn, Or re-play his Detroit past.

My friend is black! All moves for him Are indigo ...and white-men win.

Beth age one - and a bit!

An angel made an entrance ...appearing suddenly! She simply stood Beside my bed: Fair hair, fair skin, Halo crowned head, And beamed a smile at me!

I bathed in her bright beauty, Hypnotised, sleep fled. She smiled again, Her eyes alight, Then her first words Fogged fast my sight: “Gran-dan, Gran-dan,” she said.

A Song for Floss

When my hopes are as flotsam And drift on the tide, You walk at high-water And gather my pride. And I’ll love you as long as The surf runs to sand. Life only has reason When you understand.

Chorus Time cannot harm you, It stands in disgrace. The shadows flee quickly, The stars light your face. For angels stand round you When darkness draws near. Let dawn find you dreaming There’s nothing to fear.

You fight when surrender Is what I would do. Then pretend to believe it When you know it’s not true. And I’ll love you forever Until dreams have all died, That’s never my darling With you by my side.

You stay when luck wonders, To chance it with me. You weep when I’m wounded, And watch tenderly. And I’ll love you forever, My wife and my friend. For life is eternal, And love has no end.

When Petals Fall

When petals fall   And land   Wasted upon the ground, No hand     Can be found   To make anew What once so forceful grew.

No words can recall A single released spear,   Or restore one tear And make again all right.

When petals fall We grieve   For what can bloom no-more, And leave   As sure is sure, With sad regret, The flowers we can’t forget.

Dark-eyed Girl

I dreamt that when the world was wide, Arms folded, on the wild moor-side, There stood a girl with raven hair, Who denim-dressed, seemed full of care.

Her gaze was fixed somewhere afar, Her beauty, like her hair, unbound, I wondered what engaged her so, As anxiously she held her ground.

Her face was pallid, eyes were dark, She seemed pre-occupied in thought, Then suddenly she looked behind, As if a distant fear was caught.

Set free by hope she turned once more, Searching skyline for a sign Of someone longed for, meeting there, A dark-eyed girl with raven hair.

‘PC’

Now it appears (a girl tells me), She’s not a ‘Houseman’ Anymore, But something called An ‘H and O’.

And so tradition’s Had to go, Because some shit Said all must be, Politically, Bloody C!

Trumpton!

I’m here once more ...in pain, chest tight. Scribbling lines at half-past three (not wanting all this fuss for me) And in the gloom Across the room, Some mindless Mick from Donegal, Is lyrically farting at the wall!

Another Miscarriage

What once lived, And nevermore can be, Brought tears to Adele, My son, The one I love, ...and me.

This Christmas

May we know joy, As bells ring out. Let all men shout Glad-tidings from afar. May hearts be still, And worries wait. Let thoughts migrate To loved-ones and a star. May we have hope, As tears are shed. Let love be led, To salve each sinful scar. May doubt stand still, As faith is shod, Let’s thank our god For breaking prison-bars. May we find peace, And fools forgive, Let’s learn to live Together as we are.

Now

‘Now’ is the time to do that ‘Thing’, To learn that song you’ve meant to sing A thousand times - but would forget, Or remembering, say: “Not yet - not yet.”

‘Now’ is the time to act that ‘Play’, To speak those lines you’ve meant to say With confidence - but would stay hushed, Or entering, say: “I’m rushed - I’m rushed.”

‘Now’ is a word, when understood, Will do more than ten Dreamers could With best intent - but they sleep on, Or in waking, say: “The moments gone...”

Simon - aged twenty-five

Hey! Our Son’s twenty-five, And to his shocked surprise, (we’re glad to say!) He’s still alive And kicking!

           Child’s Pond

There is a Pond in the garden, It’s small, And not at all Ostentatious.

There are some fish in the water. They swim About within, Surprisingly!

There is a wall to lean upon And stare, When time is there To watch the fun.

There are those who when looking in, Grin at The pond, while fish Act capriciously.

There are some that point at a fish And say: “Hey! Look at the Size of that one!”

There is a man who tends the fish, It’s me! And I too like the pond, Not so amazingly.

My Valentine

A bright spring morn: Thy face to see. An autumn night: Thy mystery.

A winter fire: Thy soft warm smile. Enchanted stars: Thine eyes, beguile.

My heart I give For thee to keep. What need I more? Let seasons sleep!

Eternal is My summertime. For thee I love, My valentine.

Once Upon A Time

There was a time when ‘Things’ was good, When ‘They’ acted as ‘They’ should, But now ‘They’ acts just as ‘They’ would, Before the rain, before the flood.

There was an age when ‘Time’ moved slow. When ‘Progress’ knew which way to go, But ‘Now’ with ‘They’, rush to-and-fro, Confused by ‘What’? ‘They’ does not know!

There was a day when ‘What’ was ‘What’, ‘We’ thought of ‘How’ - but ‘Then’ forgot. By ‘Now’, ‘We’ should have learned a lot, “We have,” say ‘Some’ - well, ‘I’ think not!

The One Who Walked the Pathway

The one who walked the pathway stopped, The wind that moved the twilight dropped, So silent in the way.

The one who walked the pathway saw, The valley that he’d trod before, Was waking with new day.

The one who walked the pathway knelt, The grass beneath his feet he felt Was withering away.

The one who walked the pathway knew, The laws of nature would ensue He could no longer stay.

The one who walked the pathway stood, He saw beyond, a child - his blood, Mesmerised in play.

The one who walked the pathway blushed, He knew new growth could not be crushed, And went upon his way.

Willow herb

The August flowers of willow herb Have died beneath the head. Magenta spears, Will summer’s tears So soon be likewise shed?

Be shed, yet rise when autumn’s call Is wind-born by the weir. When silvered threads, From willow beds, Fly faster every year.

Simon’s Travail

He was very angry, And afraid. I could see within his eyes, The rage at hard circumstance, He’d made. I allowed his rage to turn Its savage flame on me, Then watched it die away, And quietly let him be.

Back in control He left to give support, To she whom all his love, Once upon a time, had caught. Who, in protracted childbirth, Needed what faith he had, When he, in his frustration, Needed to bite his dad!

Old Eyes

We are older now (our grandchildren are reminders), Will they weep again the wasted tears Sad-shed we’ve put behind us?

Will they stand upright  the quicker, If left crying after falling? Or have all content can need If envy’s ignored calling?

Will their musing souls know better Than think evil of an other? That some smiles are far more valuable Than gold-digging might discover?

Will they consider wrong is right And like some fools forget That hatred is a savage dog But affection they can pet?

Will they become as atheists when They’ve rationalised their minds. Or in a street of ruined faith, A house of heaven find?

Perhaps in time they’ll know as I When night is creeping nearer, That even though the light is dim Their eyes can see much clearer!

20-03-96

Simon – ageless

He butts the wall And like me, once, He acts as if He doesn’t care at all.

He rants and raves, His love upon the shelf. Yet who is he, But a foe unto himself.

He cannot lie, Reacting as a bull, But who’s to say what Price his honesty must pay.

She watches lost, And with his son, afraid, What cost a tune, a lyric, Midnight made.

She runs away, He too escapes the hour, Then they return, To gather up the flower.

When petals fall, And lay wasted on’ the ground, What fool can say: Mad music has no sound.

Dead D J

They rise to flutter in the sun, To astonish everyone. Dodging dragons in the sky. Seeking pollen, Seen on high As stained glass windows passing by.

With friends around the lawn they dance, Upon a breeze of circumstance. Then settle soft with open wings. Absorbing heat, Reflecting light, Until comes coolness of the night.

Tis then they contemplate alone, The emptiness of garden grown, With dreams dreamt worthless. Without wind. Then as we cry, Away they fly...

04-05-96

“Darrrrrd!”

In fear They rely on me, To be near And I Must respond.

Yet if they knew My fright, They might, Stop, And think Again.

24-05-96

Mister Mclaughton

After apologising for his row He continued with it Anyhow: A repetitive sound, A shake of his bed, A PERSON! A PERSON! With a crab in his head.

The man in great pain, The oxygen mask. Again, And again, And again He did ask, For someone to come, For someone to come, For someone to come, And be kind. Anyone…

4-07-96

Little Big Man

Little Big Man’s come to play, And the cloudy sky has gone away. These blessings bright: Liam, Bob, and Beth. Those, That when I’m close to death And morphine is no use to me, I picture, In my agony.

‘B’ My Fairy!

She rides astride a unicorn, With silver hooves, And golden horn, Gliding through the magic glade, Among the rays of dawn.

Upon a toadstool in the wood, She sits - as any fairy should, And smiles at pixies as they play, Shooing every elf away, They say...

I see her, with enchanted eyes, Transfix a goblin in surprise, Then off with air-born seed she flies, Chasing purple dragonflies Across the lawn.

Perhaps, one day you’ll see her too, Maybe, she’ll blow her dust at you, And laugh, at every ‘atish-oo! ’, Before she flutters into blue, And flies away...

Ever

There is no dawn without you, No light to find my way, No sun to warm my wintry heart               And melt the frost away.

Pointless, the hours pass slowly, And would, my heart explain, That it cannot begin to beat Until we kiss again.

I love you senseless, And so deep, Should ‘ever’ be a lie! My love will build a place for us, Where time will pass us by.

13-09-96

Lot 50

At times I feel a stranger here, An odd detachment From this mad sale-room of mankind. I hear a distant Melancholy memory Tapping soft upon my mind.

A faithful face watches me From far outside my head. Now forgotten, a once familiar friend, Reminding me today, As I take up my makeshift bed, Where tomorrow I must end.

When my heart is beating strong, Faith is hushed, and taps unsure, But my strength faltering, Remembrance does not wait too long Before penetrating perception, And with insistence, halters my rushed existence.

They say some call-answering souls, Shown all, return changed! Speaking of angels, Passages of light, And of meeting friends, dressed In dazzling white garments!

But mostly, I forget faiths small bid, Until like thunder comes Ghostly tapping upon the wall, Reminding me, but clay, That sold to faith’s my lot today.

24-10-96

The Kids

A few crumbs on the carpet, A small price to pay, For such a Wondrous blessing, As they.

04-11-96

As if?

Don’t worry if one tearful day You have to travel far away, For time will stop, And you will find, Dark fears that haunt Your troubled mind, Will vanish in the evening sky, And in the twinkling of an eye, We’ll be together, You and I.

In Search of Flowers

Sometimes I seek with tear-torn eyes What sight cannot reveal, Or senses recognise! Hearing blooms, That sing to me whilst sleeping! Sad sounds in moonlit madness, Vermilion vehement gladness, Or cruel clambering commotion. Open oysters that glisten! Causing me to wander, And oft times - My gaze somewhere afar, To marvel at sharp stars, and listen! Sometimes, enveloped by my emotion, I step carelessly, Falling upon feathers: Plucked plumes, that so flightless lay My stuttering lips could never say What scent would rise from rose-winged words? Or my muse-mind begin to realise what beauty, What fragrant birds so sweet Lie crushed beneath my clumsy feet. Then, stumbling higher up the hill, To a cloud-caught morning, still, A certain sleeping-sickness met, Makes my perception, time, forget. Sometimes, far distant I perceive A fond face softly smiling, That in the half-light empties hours, When I’m lost among the fractured flowers, Comes reconciling fear with faith. Searching till she finds me safe, As I wander out of sight. Who finds me on the haunted hill, Lost far beyond the daffodil, And to her heart takes me again, Where poets need no path explain. Forsaken Floss, left to atone, Whilst I step sleepless, and alone! 4-12-96

The Whale’s Song

The whale’s song is a shoal song, Well known to fishes free. The whale’s song is a sound song, When he dives beneath the sea.

The whale’s song is a surf song, And swells within the tide. The whale’s song is a still song, Where the red seahorses’ ride.

The whale’s song is a sweet song, Off cape, in coral bay. The whale’s song is a sleep song, That haunts the dying day.

The whale’s song is a sad song, When lonely he does roam. The whale’s song is a star song, And guides the herd less home.

The whale’s song is a soul song, And never must be said: The whale’s song is a sung song, When hunted, all are dead!

Shared Computer

She sits upon my knee, And joy-jiggles, Squashing my soft places. She sits upon my knee, And mouse-squiggles, Sketching silly faces. She sits upon my knee, And glee-giggles, Trashing treasured filing. She sits upon my knee, And worm-wriggles, Scented sweet, and smiling, She sits upon my knee, And Miss Tiggles, Babbles between breathing. She sits upon my knee, And it niggles ‘Gangan’, when Beth’s leaving!

Gritter

A gritter growls at 4:00am, Along the sleep set street. Its progress prompts reality, My dreaming incomplete.

I try to keep my senses hushed, But one thinks otherwise! And as another truck toils by, Sight whispers to my eyes.

Long still I lie, lest she should wake, Err darkness dares to dress. Sleep deep my love, Sleep deep and rest, The night grows less and less...

Childless Christmas

X Mass, And The   Star That stood Upon nativity; Having shone itself away, Christmas dawned without starlight, And no seraphs sprang from silvered sleep to Play. No angels pounced On piled-up Present places, Or cherubs flew about the room with fire-flushed Excited faces, Tearing tissue in their half-dressed giddy glee. Kids grown and gone away with theirs! No bashed batteries bested, Or red wrapping wrested beneath the tumbling Tree. Christmas dawned simply silently, And nothing moved much at all. Or fanned the fires dim ember ring to warm We two: My love and I, who sat quietly. No fruit was wasted. No mess, Or half a chocolate tasted. Just she And me, Remembering.

29-12-96

January

Monochrome, the moor’s set bright, A magpie flies drift buttressed wall, Feathers seasonal in flight, All black and white, All black and white.

Above - the sun peeps from pearl home, Below - six crows to silence call, Hopping high on something dead, All brown and red, All brown and red.

The ridge road sinks to lower roam, Beyond the snow-drift sculptured hall, As sky sets into different hues, All pinks and blues, All pinks and blues.

The earth a bowl, the sky a dome, Within, we on our homeward haul, And sunset seeps, as sunset should, All bronze and blood, All bronze and blood.

04-01-97

Jackdaws

It pleases me to see January Jackdaws

Paired with such an Admirable adhesion.

Right now - across the way, Two bonded birds sit still,

Contentment shared, Looking southward,

For some particular reason. Soul-mate silhouettes

Against a glacial grey, Perching peaceably.

09-01-97

My Heart

I thought my heart was soft, But they said ‘No!’ Mine neither begs, nor bleeds, But tough and tight it regulates my pink. And when I think I have a heavy heart, It’s naught but gloom in soulful guise. Those rational and wise, They told me so!

I thought my heart was glad, But they said ‘No!’ Mine neither leaps, nor loves, But shoves corpuscles to my mind. And what I find to be a joyful heart, Is naught but rapture wrapped in words. Those rational and wise, They let me know!

I thought my heart was full, But they said ‘No!’ Mine neither brims, nor bursts, But beats away without a will, And what I bill as hurt or broken heart, Is naught but muscle crying out. Those rational and wise, Say that - no doubt.

12-01-97

Beth’s Tree

Beth’s tree sports sizeable stickers. Secretly she’s stuck them there To make me laugh! They do! And each time I see the tree I smile wistfully, And try not to dwell upon the thought, Beth would not be she, Lest for my anguished kiss of fear, And the sudden gasp she caught In her heart-stopping history.

16-01-97

Peter on Parade

On parade at Pirbright, Supposed to be making the grade. No time - no sleep - no pity, Where rows of red robots are made.

Hands blistered, belt blancoed, boots bloodied, Shrill shouts of: “TWO THREE ONE!” A beating for nothing, then lights-out, When a dancing day is done.

So stupid are we conscripts, So clever every toff. Where urine hits pristine porcelain, Boots pickling in the trough.

Reduced by threat and trauma, Programmed to jump when called, I stop my spirit breaking, By keeping my mind installed.

“So you want to leave the Army!” “Can’t take it!?” said, the CC, Enigmatic, I smiled at the android, He knew that I was still me...

27-03-97

Valentine 97

There is a chain between our hearts That time has proved with tears. Each golden link of happiness Not stressed by painful years. And though some souls are pulled apart And dulled, no longer shine. My love remains untarnished, Forever, Valentine.

14-02-97

Faith Fairies

Faith fairies fill a fire-side spot, That heaven did perhaps allot. And by the flame of ingle-nook, They sit, they stand, they pose, they look, With wings that glitter in the light. Small maidens made of magic clay, Who, when the night grows dark and still, Begin to wake and fly about, Until morning brings an end to play, And we can say - We think we’re sure?! These angels in another guise, Have strayed from where they stood before!

19-03-97

Lapwing

Lapwing, Lapwing, Tumbling, turning, Swooping, sailing, The bracken burning.

Diving, twisting, Swept back wings. Displaying, dashing, The stunt-bird flings.

Dropping down, Then speeding high, Climbing, stalling, In wind-wild sky.

Inverted dart, A flip, it falls! At once to rise With ‘pew-it’ calls!

19-03-97

Box

When I am gone will my words die? And lie unread, my voice a memory, My farrago features incomplete, Some pieces worn away, By rain that fell Since yesterday?

Or shall some soul in delving thought, By chance unearth this dusty tome, And fit, in some dead reading-room These puzzle words, And picture me, And thus ensure my tiny place In jigsaw history.

26-04-1997

Freedom

God had been good! We were free! Free from our debts. And no one To face us Or chase us With threats.

26-04-1997

Whitby

We went to Whitby, In the cold. The harbour was mud, And yet was gold! Beyond jet stones, So black, so old, Brown waves soap-sudded, And bubbling bold!

26-04-1997

Sanctuary

Because across the curtained way someone was breathing blood, she came amid verbose commotion, spoke my first name, and fussed with my sad sheets - the hunchback nurse, pushing her sunken head at me as I lay close to sleep and feeling better. She, whom with straight grace shouldered her curse beneath a smiling face.

Other staff busied best to save, best as any mortals could, Expressions grey, some gowns a faded ghostly green, Sharp needles, absurd paper-hats, tissue perforation, Hurried ‘do-this, do-that’s’ in dire desperation, And in-between big words, small looks of loss, Young dogs, old fears, bravely understood!

Soon it grew still. Practised hands stopped ministering with haste. Beneath the white-windowsill the brow-battering beeping must have quit – but I never noticed it! Now, no one rushed. Not much sound – lost fox gone to ground! Noses earthbound, all but two young pups wondered away some place to rest.

A nervous laugh! Hot water. Disinfectant. Nothing drastic. A soft call! Plastic gloves, plastic aprons. A request. More elastic efficiency!

Later, awakening upon my cot-like bed, behind my dream-soaked head I heard passing wheels and rattling coffin tin, and remembered the hunchback’s soft, yet smothering smile.

A child! I’d been taken-in! Tricked by a magic motherly action. Diverted by a dedicated death-distraction.

05-04-1997

Tea

Tea, Like beer, Should be supped, Not sipped. Is that clear!

14-05-97

Fissure

A deep depression Slits my soul Now we must be apart, A canyon deep! Where here below An eagle eats my heart. And deeper still From off the hunters nook, My angry wound Drips rapid red, To foul   Eroded brook. A sink of sorrow. Blood-loss to wend. Cliffs sheer, too steep For me, or any man Wept-weak, Alone ascend. So, down, I gaze above, Through haze Of parted-pain, Watchful for my Longed-for love, To make me whole again.

20-05-97

Phantom

Gone stiff, He lay placed on a wall, As if the blood on his face Was a little disgrace. Put high above Like a toy, Or lost glove, One of some worth, Fallen to earth.

Poor Phantom Was dead! A cat Of loved fame, Killed by a car Whilst out in The dark Being true to His name.

12-06-97

Painful Poetry:

1

Since the biopsy result   I struggle to write, To think, And I want to fight Whoever offends me.

For Floss’s sake I try to be strong, But my courage is a thief, And in secret robs my Soul of sobs.

She, harassed in the street, Finds some are sympathetic, Others sweet, Embarrassed, Kind, or curiously cruel.

The word ‘cancer’ She rarely mentions, But it stands poised upon her lips, Occasionally leaping out To terrify.

Such deep anxiety, Each day multiplying, And I deafened by a dreadful fear, Whispering, that my lovely girl May be already dying.

23-07-96

2

They ask me How she is, I say: “courageous”, But she is more Than brave.

One breast is gone, All that is to be seen Is a grave wound, A tube of blood, And a dressing.

What is depressing Is that she still smiles At life with love, Her beautiful crown Cropped.

Tonight I stopped Beside the road And wept again, How can I explain How I feel?

I realise life does not Conspire to chance, Yet at times it seems So unfair for such as She to suffer.

I want to go And make it right, But how can I? With no-one to fight But circumstance.

3

The mastectomy over, Now there’s nothing We can do But wait to discover If the cancer Has further spread.

During her hospital stay Floss was heroic, Each day Confounding Those who expected A slow recovery.

Up and active, Attractive, As only She can be. Her chest draining, Never complaining.

At home the ‘phone Brings both comfort, And stress: Some talk, Some listen, Others digress.

Me? I still find Myself getting riled, Impotent, Unable to change a thing. My lovely girl Defiled.

4

Periodically Her tissue fills with fluid. A blank mound appears, A mock breast, To wrest at Her wound. A needle is inserted, Her tissue aspirated, And without complaint She sits calm... Whilst others who watch Feel faint.

5

Tears welled up From her heart, Were drained At her lips, Then leaked away In heavy drips.

She sobbed all night, Kept saying ‘I’m sorry’. I said that it was Alright, Alright to cry, And put her to bed.

Yet all was wrong, Tears could not dry, Knowing tomorrow She would remain In sorrow… ...and so would I.

1-11-96

6

Making love was easy. We worried about it Needlessly. So rare To share desire Beside the fire. Me the clumsy Being careful lover, Whose gentle caress Did uncover One problem less, And some tenderness.

8-11-96

7

I write by candlelight, A power-cut at night, Not long after Floss rang around The awful news: ‘Twenty percent!’ A Spanish Registrar’s Survival views.

This doctor took her judgement out, And read as if Floss Was already dead. ‘No doubt Meaning well. I lied to Floss, later, A sudden Spaniard hater.

We requested the main-man come. He rushed to placate, To communicate In our distress. To mop up The bloody thoughtless mess She’d made of it.

14-11-96

8

Trying to paint fingernails, Holding her trembling hand, Attempting to get it right.

Then I began weeping. What a fool! I couldn’t see clearly.

My sight dulled by tears. Nearly made a mess of it! Pink varnish like glue.

What a time to start crying, My grief in the red, Emotion askew.

Taking forever, My fat fingers shaking, My self-control breaking.

11-11-96

9

One day at a time, Because that’s the best way, Let’s laugh at tomorrow, Smile still for today!

One day at a time, Together we’ll share it, Where hope has been hid, Our love will declare it.

One day at a time, Shut out your concern, You’re safe in the present, The past can’t return.

One day at a time, No worries, no fear, Soon we will discover, Another good year!

10

She knows the truth, Yet like Ruth, Continues to glean some hope, Rather than mope About the wheat field Looking glum, And depressing everyone.

11

We got drunk! A good idea - at first, But soon we were both Worse for wear, And crashed out.

I woke up cold. Floss was well gone, To anyone! 1:00am! Best in bed.

I tried to put my head together, And get organised. I should have realised That I was too Bloody leg-less.

Somehow I got Floss upstairs, And we both fell to the bedroom floor. Poor girl, what was I doing Allowing this To happen?

Well stupid, I couldn’t lift her To her feet, And in drunken frustration We both began to cry.

I pleaded with her to stand, She did, Swaying, And I kept saying: ‘Sorry’.

We climbed among the silly sheets, And hugged each other, uncontrollably. Well pissed past midnight, Sobbing off to sleep, She and me.

12

She shortened her style And in bald anticipation! Whilst wearing An NHS wig, Prepared to face the world, Saying all the while that she Didn’t give a fig. What a lie!

Then, later, Her brain Splitting, Bare headed, She anxiously Faced me. I said that she looked Eighteen - which she did!

What a Woman, What a Lovely girl. Never quitting, Making the best of An irregular fitting, And getting on with it.

13

The nurse seemed nice, But somewhat syrupy. Cheerfully Offering advice, Platitudes, Attitudes, And a session Of painful Chemotherapy.

Floss sat patiently, Merrily chatting away, As if this was Just another day.

So now Floss is Full of chemicals. Some pink, Some red, Some saucier, And some greenish gear, To try and Prevent The Nausea.

20-11-96

14

And I made a meal, Because we Hadn’t eaten. It was not much, But such as it was, It was warm.

Floss ate well! I was pleased About that, And she could tell By the way I kept smiling.

Then she was Suddenly ill, Sick in the sink, And tried to hide Her shame Behind her hand.

I said: ‘don’t hide, It’s okay!’ But her dismay Turned to tears, And took some time to Drain away.

27-11-96

15

At 3:00am the bed-side phone Reminded us we weren’t alone: Abigail had gotten sick, And I was needed, quick, quick, quick!

Returning to a kept-warm bed, Beside my love I put my head. All I had done was re-assure, Sponging, to lower temperature.

Floss was pleased that all was fine, She lit a cig’ - a pipe was mine. We fogged the room, and laughed a lot, The hour - the C - a while forgot.

Then Floss said, that she had a yen! For bacon, egg - not soon - but then! We had run-out - but soup seemed right, So off I bummed, into the night.

Soon soup was hot, and I’d gone cold, But I cared not, behold, behold! The soup was right! - receding fast! My love was eating - at last, at last!

30-11-96

16

A gritter growls at 4:00am Along the sleep-set street’ Its progress prompts reality, My dreaming incomplete.

I try to keep my senses hushed, But one thinks otherwise, And as another truck toils by, Sight whispers to my eyes.

Long still I lie, lest she should wake, Err darkness dares to dress. Sleep deep my love, sleep deep And rest - the night grows less and less...

11-12-96

17

Whilst chatting I shaved off her hair, What remained of it! Yet both were aware, That my articulate action, Was but a doubtful distraction, For our silent despair.

22-12-96

18

I found her unwell, Soul-sick in the evening hours. Not self-pitying, Or swamped by her surging swell of sorrow, But haemorrhaging tears of depression. Stuck with this thing, And in the gathering gloom, Realising.

07-01-97

19

She picked a fight! In time, I thought she might.

Testing me, To see If I l loved her still.

Trying to make it easy For me to walk away, Should one-day I find her gone.

Such a sad deception, My temper almost shredding, Before I cottoned on.

31-01-97

20

She sleeps now, And I allow myself some selfish tears, Just for a while!

A pointless act, Done in secret.

No-one hears, Or can see my melancholy madness.

Pondering my painful, My lonely, My stupid, my hopeless sadness.

19-03-97

21

And so she’s decided To be not so lop-sided, But to lose her last breast. For the best, For the best!

22

And I said ‘no pain’, But there is! And I promised alone That she would never be, Yet met by much necessity I now realise That I cannot always Remain close by.

Such clean sentiments, Soon soiled with black reality, And upon their Washing-day Clothes-line practicality, High hanging around In the rain, Refusing to dry.

23

Now She has shingles, And from a small white jar I spread Pink calamine cream Around her Raw magenta wound!

Then, In short respite she sleeps, Lost in drugged dreams, Tablet tranquillised, Slumbering so still That I sometimes rise in fear And stare at her face.

She, Escaped to sleep, At rest across the room, Yet wondering far away, Distant in her dream dismay, Too remote for my searching sighs To bring her back to me.

She, Who knows too well, when waking, That cruel reality, Like I, Will ever be nearby, Still watching, Still waiting.

19-06-97

24

The bruised sight Of her suffering And pain, Offends me, Again, and again, When with shoulders Racked round, She waits Vainly to mend, Whilst I stare At the ground, Feeling useless. Some friend! ! 27-06-97

25

And so we were told Why the wound had not healed, What plucked flesh revealed. She, shaking with fear, Me, my hope insincere. The cancer was strong, The day had moved on, Bright dreams were all swept, Black darkness had crept.

Floss left the sad room, I stayed to talk on, My tears hit bare floor, And I left insecure, To prepare our hearts parting, Prognosis pain smarting: ‘A few months, or so”. But who is to know When love will let go?

14-07-97

26

Emaciated, she wakes. Confused, In pain, And sore, Her limbs jerking for more morphine. Convinced that today She must attend a funeral, But whose she does not know. I try not to let it show that I perceive, And hide my grief behind A patronising smile, While struggling upright, She perspires, And strokes her weeping wound, Her eyes pleading for some sanity, Her damp hair dishevelled, In this dishonest, Partite, Profanity.

18-07-97

27

Thistles stand tall, And all the grasses too. A path between lets me walk with care, To where flat river, Black, Sets me wandering back, To hide my tears, And care for her, Who, One more time Smiles in her pain, Then drifts to sleep, As once again I weep.

20-07-97

28

And now she’s gone, And I must go on, Alone! All about, late summer, Dry. Another autumn nears, And I must put each foot behind the last.

All is memory, All is in the past. What dreams Might lie ahead I neither see, Or without her smile, Might wish to come to be.

The earth below, Beneath Beth’s tree, Where waters watch, And flowers hang heavily, Holds ashes sweet, And besides my lovely girl, The greater part of me!

16-08-97

The Follower

Loneliness lies long, And sleeps within my bed. She wakes chilled, Beside my haunted head.

Loneliness she waits, And sits beside my feet, With eyes black, Upon a pallid sheet.

Loneliness she walks, And follows at my heel, Should I try to rest, Her silent stare I feel.

Loneliness is dumb, Nor hears what I might say, But watches me, And will not go away…

27-08-97

*

Gone temporarily insane:

Spider

Black Spider Sits                         upon White                                               wall, Passing         moments           by. Look      at     the   thing! Big or WHAT! Let us note the very spot, Lest it should trot Our way!

Black Spider Seems            about To            crawl, Waiting       for     a     fly.            Shall we squash it With a SWAT? No, perhaps we’d better not, Lest a big blot Should stay!

29-08-97

Assignation 1

A journey new! One that’s meant to be! Come, take my hand and run with me Along a better way. For all has changed, Time taps and cannot stay, Nor fear allay what must be done. Nor dawning sun stand still within the sky. The crossroad lies somewhere behind. So, for a while You’ll find this pathway strange, And fast the pace, But when at last We stop to take our place Where fate would have us be, I’ll reach and touch your face, And make you smile! Then safe within my heart, You’ll rest, And give your love to me!

Lenor

Let me swim within your eyes, Mesmerised to drowning. Let me gaze across the gulf of knowing, To where your wildest waves begin, With tempest passion, No shallow frowning, Or sorrow showing.

Let me hold your olive eyes, As softly you are smiling. Let me show what depths I feel, In far fathoms of my seeing, As tide turns, And love – real, Rushes into being.

J B’s Island

Fuelled full by fate,      Sent forth by love,       My carpet,                                     Magic, above confusion.

She sees it stay,    In disbelief,        My carpet.                         A brief Illusion.

Floats!

Then down it drifts,  In gentle glide,   My carpet.                           Magic, hers to ride.

      One foot she fains        Upon its pile.               My carpet,                   Magic

Floats awhile.

 Land?             Never…                 Magic,                     Real?

                               Not ever…

Pain Insane

I’m escaping grief in freedom! Running around unbound. No wreath, No fence of memories to restrain me. Mute pain, Is all I have to explain my foolish actions. My head full of songs silly, And other daft distractions. Unable to look up, down, or back. Enduring a serious, Fate fatal, Fast forward, Fool foray, Nutty, Heart attack.

Hat

Her hat sits in the window of a Charity shop. I had to stop and stand there, Remembering how she made it, Imagining its funny fit, And the winsome way she looked, Whilst wearing it.

This and that:

IRA

Without a shout about the drought, Dead swallows fill the sky, Because they cross across the floss, Whilst angels ask them, why?

1971

Gulf

The drummer beats, And to his steady drumming, A vanquished army breaks the battlefield, Full-fallen, face – mortification. Rug-ragged - man - so unaware, A victory that once so sweetly sampled, Turned bitter In the burning acrid air. Obscured in blaze of billowing badness, The sun above burns in a clean blue day, Below in mire and money madness, Long lines of men, who captured, have to pay. The drummer beats and to his steady drumming, Stars glitter, somewhere out of reach, Tides rise, and swift, send oceans running, A child is walking on the beach...

Tree I know a tired tree, Ready to be rooted out without ceremony. Once, it grew tall and true, Looking for the light, A sapling, Green, and new, And right. Now hushed in yellow hue, It bears no fine-fruit, Or blossom, Blushed and blue, Made mute, Stripped of its shield of bark, Watching for the woodsman’s axe, Naked in the park.

Cole Porter’s Gone Sick, Song! Intro: Lies can be white as winter, Or soiled as sooty night. Deception sewn in selfishness, Lies said to make things right. But the blush that came upon your Cheek when last you spoke my name, Made me realise you’d been lying, So let your heart explain, And I’ll listen once again… . We’re cooling conversation, Saying silly things, When upon our lips the warmest words, Are grounded without wings. Repeating stupid phrases, Saying, nothing real, Stating what is obvious, Not saying how we feel. You say to me, you’re happy, I nod, and don’t believe it. You smile at me, but deep within, Your sad eyes don’t reveal it. We’re cooling conversation, As if our words make sense, Cutting into silence, With every sinew tense. Me asking, “How is everything?” You saying, “All is fine”, Then blinking as you look at me Another lying line! You understand I love you, And you, your love is mine, Let’s be honest with each other, Stop being asinine. We’re cooling conversation, Every time we meet, A distance kept between us,  Half strangers in the street, But cold and tired of chatter, Time will not stand for long, Be truthful in the morning , Let evening find us gone.

3-09 Lock       There is a key                               That fits the lock Eternity, And when we kiss, You will be free! You will see, You will see.

Extraordinary doggerel! Strange word ‘Strange’, Often said in a strange way. “Strange?” We say in dismay, Then we walk away, Strangely puzzled, Scratching the head. A locution to thoughtless mutter, That tastes like marge, Not butter upon dry bread! ‘Odd’, ‘unusual’, ‘bizarre’, Or even, ‘funny-peculiar’ They spread much better! As a rule-ier. Wouldn’t you say? If only mutt ‘strange’ was muzzled, And put in its proper mad slot, Or chased away by a cat! But that would be, ‘Outside reason’. ‘Wondrous’, And perhaps maybe, ‘foreign’, But it’s never, never, not! Strange that, What?

. Crazy I lost my head, But I didn’t realise that it was missing! I think I misplaced it Whilst Floss was leaving! Where had it been? What had it seen? Before Nadine caught it rolling along Deep in thought and grieving. When I asked my head to explain, All it said was: “Hello, Pete, I’m back again!

” Poetry written in Greece:

KOS Warm raisin air, And everywhere is heat! Brainy-bugs that stare, Moped buzzing In bar-street. Tiles cooling skin, Cicada,’ ticking-off hot trees. Stillness, set moon, one star, Then sand, white sun, And breeze. Retsina, dance music, And Ouzo into dawn. Stiff sheets, wall sounds, Brown man watering Brush lawn. Palm trees, Black olives, Dry hens, cows, And trumpet flowers Of fragrant flaming red. Green frog, Pool, blue. In path-side tree, suspended, A rotting goat, Hangs accidently dead!

Eclipse in Greece Mad moon shines upside down tonight, Ellipse eclipsed, Not bright. Compressed in pewter-grey, Dark-dressed with smoky-brown, And soft it’s turned about. A candle-lit balloon, High-held aloft, But without string. Only half reflective. A wild-mushroom, New, buttoning the sky. A doughnut thing, Absorbing every hue. In 3D perspective!

Lardy Birds Lard-larks Are learning how to sing, Each trill incomplete, But sweet! The swallows show A varied wing, Each a crescent dart, Apart. Quick crows wear vests Of graphite-grey, Each sounds alike Today. Same sparrows drink The pool and play, And me? I fly away!

Mountain Mount flint-flake fills Horizon haze. Sand-set pumice, Bite-peaks, bare, Jagged, slashing into sky, Above dark Cyprus trees, And dry. Reed-field, Citrus, Peppers, Dust, Blunt-bees, Hypocrites, A silver sun, And everyone asleep!

Legs I’m fitted with the wrong legs! A pair of peculiar pegs. That’s why I trip, And slip, And stumble. It’s no use for me to grumble, Or to lie upon the ground And mumble That I don’t look neat. I must get up, And stand upon These two Odd feet!

Her Name I could not speak her name, Nor look upon her face. I drew a line under death, A place in the past, Or so thought I! Why let her image live? Let it die, So that I might survive, With a shadow of my love enduring. I could not speak her name, Then sleep gave sound to grief, I glimpsed her born anew, Beauty restored, Her gentle smile, A smile like first I saw when, long awhile, Our gaze first met. That day when love birthed bright as now, But yesterday. I could not speak her name, All words were mine, but one! I ran to be with her, To touch her cheek, To stroke her hair, But swift, she turned away, And was not there to stem my bitter loss, Awake I called her back: “My Floss. My Floss…”

Odds and ends:

Age My tissue tells its tale of years: Flesh, hair, teeth, and skin, all speak of ‘time’, All rhyme decay, But here within is RAGE at yesterday! A mind yet youthful, A mind more truthful than Anything that is writ Upon age’s putrid pages. A fact-face that IS the mass named ME! Without a trace of days That passed behind in infamy. But man will ever be perceived as grass, By what the eye perceives as dead, However large it lives inside The confines of an angry head.

Perhaps Perhaps you think your flame has died? Not so! Perhaps you think my reason lied? Not so! For although, chilled, the day stands still, Chance sits patient, And waits, Until a loving-look fans fates Bright glow!

Sleepwalking Lenor came, lost, So lost was she, Escaping from hard history, That what she took as road ahead, Began to take her back, instead! Lenor came, lost, Yet brought her smile, One that blossomed for a while, Then faded when she grew forlorn, Confused by muddled-maps she’d drawn. Lenor came, lost, Met by a ghost, Beneath a bright, but blank signpost. He closed her eyes, led her away, Into a land where drank dismay. Lenor came, lost, But spectre, glad! Dreamt, now, highway ahead she had, Yet haunting hearts, was wandered low, Her beauty, used, her footsteps slow. Lenor came, lost, When in that place Her soul beheld a knowing face, And understood from evening-eyes, Of hills that reached the morning skies. Lenor came, lost, Asleep, did doubt The prompting of her heart – her scout! And as she snapped the strangers gaze, Was lead below to Midnight-maze. Lenor came, lost, Her love still waits! The way he knows, the paths, the gates, But blinded by her ghostly guide, Lenor, in darkness, sets her stride. Lenor came, lost, Walks on, walks on, Around, around, direction gone. Still wake? She could, to see high hills, Run yet, among dawn’s daffodils!

Assignation 2 An avenue! One that’s meant to be! Come, take my hand and follow me Along a wooded way. For trees have changed, Time trips, leaves cannot stay, Autumn says what must be done. Can watery sun stand still Within a saddening sky? Soul signpost lies somewhere behind, And for a while you’ll find This Season strange, And pushed the pace, But when, at last, We stop to take our place Where he would have us be, I’ll reach and touch your face, And make you smile! Then safe among the hills, You’ll rest, With me.

Spent Impoverished in later life, Floss died! An ironic end, Her purse stuffed with money, No time for her to spend. 04-10-97

Elena PanayiDou (perhaps) Never had I seen such eyes, Such beauty so subdued. Never had I seen such eyes, Nor heard such silent soulful sighs, Never viewed such scars of grief, Wrapping red, Old wounds beneath. She held my fascinated gaze, And willed me to her side, Sad smiled, Yet never changed her stare, Sad smiled, And held me hostage there, Pain, was all I could perceive. Small common language did we share, Yet, alone, For days talked we, In English, Russian, Greek, and Deutsche, Elena’s eyes enchanting me To her dark past mind mystery, Until I saw too much! I drew her in to taste her skin, Words pierced her neck, Running so red Blood stained my reason, “unreal”, I said, This vision begging me to heal, To prick her pulsing vein of fear, To drown her dreams, of yesteryear. So deep I drank her suffering down, Her father’s death, Without a breath, I bled her soul. My crimson lips did gore explain, Why she must die with him again, And drunk with warm advice, Melt free from a cell of scarlet ice. At dawn, transformed, was she again, A vampire cured, Glorious in Greece. She thanked me with her sharp smile sure, Her anguish, ashen, now no more. So changed was she, whom did confide, No thirst could I detect inside, but peace!

Going I fear you’re going, Knowing I must remain, But the chain that links our hearts will stay, And whilst you are away, I will think of you, I will picture you, I will love you more each day. 15-10-97

And… And Lenor wakes, And sees the way, And kisses day, And fashions fate, And sees the hills, And still she waits, And still she waits. And is afraid Love is a dream, And will not last, And pictures past, And what was once, But now is gone, And feels she Cannot hurry on, And must Retrace her Slowest steps, And but accepts A silver smile, And to the breeze of Skagerrak, Shall wander back, And talk with he, Who she loves still, Yet deeper Loves she, daffodil, And sad will find No hearts made new, And all will be As left, was true, Then gold, Shall quickly Dawn that day, And she will Turn her head away, And see, beyond, High English hills, And fly to where’re Her heartbeat wills, And one day walk With me And one day walk, With me.

Snow-balling Love, From warm heart, Once ventured out, To offer all he could impart. Then left alone, His gifts, still wrapped, Love stood out in the cold day, Trapped. Long time he tarried, In deep snow, Scorned by she, Who’d bid him come, Who, once her scheming was undone, Did fly away a distant place, To wear another side to face. So after waiting without sign, Love shrugged his shoulders (Wide, like mine), Laid down his gifts, Looked up at grey, Smiled to himself, And strode away!

Colleen Eyes that hide in kisses, Where comfort, warmth, and bliss is. Lips that give of passion, Time spent unloved, did fashion. And more to give than knowing, With starlight, hidden, showing. So sweet, Colleen, close moving, ‘Till leaked lights disapproving. When loathe to leave, and dressing, Her soul she starts suppressing. No time for dreams to tarry, Then gone, her heart to carry… 19-10-97

Smudges Smudges upon the window panes, Explain. Hand- prints, infant made. Those who once played, Then disappeared. An oily trace remaining In various places, Bringing to mind their Food-filled smiling faces. My brood Who call no more to make a fuss, Although small smears still remain For me to find, But never wash away. So, will sobbing scrub My daughter’s pain away? Or tears cleanse mine? Or will hurt cloud view, And tomorrow, Sorrow Still fog the grief-glazed glass Placed in-between us. How should I know? 08-12-97

Death There is no pain like grief, Above, or beneath the earth. No gulf as wide as that Which does divide two souls Who love made one And death did separate. A suffering so great That naught can compensate For loss. No happy day forsake, Or contented week consort With yesteryear; To spans Deaths dark divide And dull the dreadful ache, My Floss… 27-12-1997

Church Bells “This is how to fight!” Her restless spirit said, As angry, I prayed for her to die, And for my sake, Surrender on her cancer killing bed. For at the end, Floss did not go gentle, But did rage,   Rage against the dying of her light. Thrashing her limbs, Into each morphine nightmare night. “This, is how to die!” Her fearless spirit taught, Then waited for her kids to hurry near, To cry goodbye, Her last breaths slowing, Knowing that the battle was fought. 24-02-98

Sorry I am sorry. Sorry for being so cruel, So selfish, and unfair. Torturing you, As I stare, haughty, Yet secretly ashamed That you remain To love me, Ne’er we know That I deserve to loose Your darling devotion. Callously watching you Turn on your side, and choose To sob without sound. Emotion absorbed Into your suffering soul. I am sorry. Sorry for my feeble fears, My stupid steely ways, The thick-skinned things I say. Please allow your Telling tears To fall free. I promise that They will not go dumb Into the ground, And lie lost, As in wordless days before, But assimilated By my heart, they will Sound as stars, Lighting the dark in me.

The Game Love came disguised, And put the past away. Then held my heart, And exorcised dismay. What, once upon a time, Was nothing but to her a game, Became, for me, So real. That’s still the way I feel! And so the wheel has turned, And the finger having wrote, Moves on. The past has said goodbye, And drying tears, has gone. All is as new, and so (revealed as love) My Sweet, are you!

A Big Poem! Tiny, little, Very small. Not so very big At all!

There is a Place There is a place in England, Where roads wind free, and farms sit small, Where skylarks sing where streamlets fall, And meadows lay. There is a place in England, Where Abbey sits, and time is caught, Where arches stand without support, And years hold sway. There is a place in England, Where sheep do run, and farm dogs’ dash, Where pheasants golden feathers flash, And chilled is day. There is a place in England, Where soft hills rise and roll with green, Where rabbits graze, and blown trees lean, And spring lambs play. There is a place in England, Where moorland spreads further than sight, Where limestone walls cling to the height, And red deer stray. There is a place in England, Where river runs in valley sweet, Where houses form a narrow street, And clouds inlay. There is a place in England, Where many men will never tread, Where blessed I lay my weary head, And where I’ll stay.

Hospital Poem Grasping at sleep as it passes me by, Catching its tail now and then. Letting it go as the night hours sigh, Turning my head in my pen. Thinking too hard for my thoughts to soft lie, Running a reel in my mind. Pictures of past on a screen move on high, To rewind, and rewind, and rewind…

Bempton Gold crowned gannets soar, The czars’ of ocean. Each sovereign gliding graciously Around high cliffs of chalk. Black-tipped wings outstretched in majesty. Low simple song, Almost lost among the common Kittiwakes’ commotion.

Walking Fluttering between tall firs, Moth-like bat with rubber wings, As sunset to the heaven sings, And owls in silhouetted trees, Screech to the stupefying stars. , While we below, who walk at night, On hill, in dale, by river bank, Do find our way by bright moonlight, And marvel at each silvered sight.

Sorry, Scott Holland ‘T’s nothing long, Not much ado’, said she, ‘I slip into a room nearby. I am I, and you, are you. Whatever we were to each, Are still - not dead. Call me yet thy lovely girl. Speak to me in ways easy, as ever. Never alter tone, or solemn be. Remember to laugh as we did so, Don’t let a sad silence grow, But let my name be spoken free, Play and pray for me, And let me exist not as a ghost, But alive. Joy maintains Life’s purest meaning, So let tears be of themselves demeaning. Love continues here as there, Why put me out of mind Because I step next door, I am still me, Just as the moment fast gone before. Nothing is past, or lost, No final curtain drawn, Truth will tell, One brief moment And night will bring the early dawn. Death sleeps short, my Love, And all is well.’

Strikes Wood In the wood there is a quiet place, Where peat-stained waters rushing race, From crags on high to shamrock glade, A place that beauty made, And few souls see, But we.

Supposing Do not suppose because I weep, Whilst reading letters of my love, That you are somehow lower than The memories that remain above. Believe, that though my soul bleeds yet, With thoughts of she I shan’t forget, That you are loved with all my heart, With all that loving can impart, And nothing less than I can give, Is yours, as long as love shall live.

Sparrow

Once - a boy, I shot a sparrow, Chirping upon high. An accident! I shot to scare, With rifle – air. Least - that’s what I said when it was dead. Two extra pellets sticking from its head, And a fluttered suffered mess upon the flagstones. I watched it die, Because of I. It was wrong. No other song! That’s why, now, I cannot put the bloody boot in, But love birds, And despise those Who enjoy senseless, stupid, shooting. 15-06-99

Sure Love Once I was sure, Sure that love came once, Or not at all. Once to share, But once to call. For how could chance Make love-lost men Dance right again, When deformed so Horribly by death. Yet I was wrong, As wrong as any, For love is not lone, Nor lame, But linked by many.

Black Dress Upon opening my eyes I saw her sitting there, Repairing a black dress, With black thread, In the darkening room. She could have easily Reached to her side And switched on the table lamp, But for some reason She did not. Pretending to be yet sleeping I kept still, And in the gathering gloom Watched her patiently sewing. She was beautiful! Gradually, her engrossed expression, And her lowered head, With its cascade of inky tresses, Was soft blotted Into one indistinct shape. Then, masked by the strengthening Silhouette of the armchair, Her fuzzy outline slowly slipped from sight, And yet somehow, in the near night, She sewed on.

Trials If we didn’t have some adversity Then we wouldn’t have any pleasure, Which we seem to get, In an equal measure! 01-06-2012

A Puddy Cat “I need a hug”, she quickly said, I hold her close against my chest, To put her troubled heart to rest, To hide her hurt, her acting face, Away from life, away from time, Just for a moment, Holding still. 23-02-2013

Bird Table Whilst the young birds fly, The old dove stays. He has no cause to care, Dovecot to share, But waits to die, Tormented by a younger breed, Alone and ill. Stock still, and starved, Among the wild birdseed, His fears long flown away, Gone is his cautious mind, As cold exposure ends his day. A fate that seems to us unkind, ‘But it’s natural’, they say, And comes to many Whom have known the summer sky, That having fast flown, Must slowly wait to die. 05-01-14

Escape Again I’m locked inside my head, Where it’s dark, and so cold. No one sees that I am trapped, Confined, solitary sad, Going insane, Feeling so old… Through prison bars I see the summer sun. Once, beneath, I felt so young, Thrilled to paint, perform, and write, To warm my creative senses. Now I’m pale, chilled, And out of sight... Sometimes I pound upon the padded cell, But in this hell-hole Who can hear my pleading? They assume I’m doing fine, Yet like the sinking sun, Slowly, I am bleeding… Beneath my pillow lies a potion, Something to help me sleep. But would it be a selfish act If tired of insomnia, I took it? Perhaps one day I may just say… ‘F… it’… 29-03-2015 Seventy I’ve got to be honest, Which, when writing poetry I always try to be. This year I reach seventy, And I have become afraid. I look around and miss the missing, Such as my old friend John. The next rhyme is obviously ‘Gone’, but he is… And so are many that I have loved. But spared death for now ‘I’ soldier on… It’s not that I fear dying, My bags are packed beneath the bed, And perhaps if I had used my head more, There are many things I might have done, And have not, but so what? I have done my best not to leave a mess, And having mended many hearts, Only one thing I confess is left undone, One thing that I regret I could not fix, No matter how I tried, And that remains my broken son. My life has been a bumpy ride, With wonderful scenery passing by, Destinations in the darkest depths, And others in the summer sky. In dying I’ll have but few laments, My fearful hovering patient friend, Please realise that in the endless end, When tired and sleeping gone have I, I’ll not be looking down on high From some amorphous cloud to see, The World remaining as it always was, And not as I wanted it to be… 03-02-16

Willow I’ve been had, My little girl’s, Little girl, Has had a little girl! How can that be? An old hippy getting a new hip… The years have overtaken me, Great grandad. 18 – 06 - 16

The Magnolia and the Maple tree. I won’t let the two trees touch, In case they cast two much shade And stunt the summer flowers. So I prune them back When it comes cold, And feel guilty That they can’t hold hands Whilst together Growing old.

19 – 08 - 16

Our Flooded House

From the B&B I can see The saddened house Staring back at me. It stands alone, Stone cold and damaged, With dust filled rooms, Powerless and ill. It waits for we three to return: We three? The confused cat, Bruised Norma, And grumpy me. To return and watch the fish, String washing below the tall fir tree, Set flowers upon the windowsill, And most of all, Just be…

30-03-2011

Painful Poetry Part Two:

Alzheimer’s

This is the beginning of another end, When I, In time, Will lose a second love. A Wife, A friend.

I am old now, And perhaps I will not be there To witness her eventual demise. But who can tell When a forgetful spirit flies.

I will watch life’s movie play out, With endless buffering. Until I leave behind Our unjust, Our fated, Our sorrowful Stupid suffering.

14/12/2016

Information

Who to tell? Or to explain that she forgot. Or said it twice, Or thrice. Who not to make aware? Who to tell of her trials Who’ll care?

15/12/2016

Separation

There’s a certain loneliness that comes with this, This separation of our minds. Me, unable to stop her going. Planning how to cope with someone else Who, in time, I won’t be knowing.

She, unable to recall what just transpired. So pointless some reminders. I must not forget who she once was Because, I do love her, And must try not to miss her too soon.

29/12.2016

Ghetto

He dwells in the ghetto of his mind, In a slum, In a room, Full of tired and tortured thoughts, Squinting through closed shutters in his head, At those that pass by his place of dread. Imprisoned by choice, Knowing that he will, Eventually, Be discovered lying in the gutter, With his last thoughts Scattered all around him, Too dead to utter.

29/01/2017

Poetry written from 1960 until May 2015: 7 Too Many People 8 Jerusalem 9 Printing 10 Observation 11 Is it Christmas Yet? 12 Hippie 13 Cup and Ring 14 Skylark 15 Glen Stream 16 DTs 17 Simon - age two 18 Simon - age eleven 19 Simon - age thirteen 20 Snow 21 Grey Day 22 Gwithian 23 Return 24 Insomnia 25 SOS 26 Jowett Pond 27 Bolton Abbey 28 Detached 29 Departure 30 Temple Newsam 31 Detached 32 Rawdon Billing 33 Mr Babble the Insurance Man 34 Fog 35 Cutter Grinding 36 Mormonism 37 Miscarriage Bingo 38 Grandad 39 Promotion Prospects

40 Three Sisters’

Poetry written in Western Germany: 42 Deutch TV Documentary 43 Hydenweg 10 44 Homesick 45 Buchenwald 46 Hessich Oldendorf 47 Hameln 48 BFPO 29 49 Driving 50 1663 51 Wealthy 52 Minden Road

Return home: 54 Hospital 55 Stroke 56 Tired 57 Dad Dream 58 Rich Man 59 Day 60 Debt 61 Leaving 62 Douglas Dakota C47 63 Nidd Flier 64 Floss Tired 65 To be read at my funeral 66 Two am 67 Storm 68 Good-bye 69 Floss 70 CCU 71 Apart 72 Vanished Vicar

73 My Daughters’ 74 New Nana 75 Beth - age one 76 Jaque a Mate 77 Beth age one - and a bit! 78 A Song for Floss 79 When Petals Fall 80 Dark-eyed Girl 81 ‘PC’ 82 Trumpton! 83 Another Miscarriage 84 This Christmas 85 Now 86 Simon - aged twenty-five 87 Child’s Pond 88 My Valentine 89 Once Upon A Time 90 The One Who Walked the Pathway 91 Willow herb 92 Simon’s Travail 93 Old Eyes 94 Simon – ageless 95 Dead D J 96 “Darrrrrd!” 97 Mister Mclaughton 98 Little Big Man 99 ‘B’ My Fairy! 100 Ever 101 Lot 50 102 The Kids 103 As if? 104 In Search of Flowers 105 The Whale’s Song 106 Shared Computer 107 Gritter

108 Childless Christmas 109 January 110 Jackdaws 111 My Heart 112 Beth’s Tree 113 Peter on Parade 114 Valentine 97 115 Faith Fairies 116 Lapwing 117 Box 118 Freedom 119 Whitby 120 Sanctuary 121 Room 122 Tea 123 Fissure 124 Phantom

Painful Poetry: 126 – 154.  Poems numbered 1 to 28 155 The Follower

Gone temporarily insane: 157 Spider 158 Assignation 1 159 Lenor 160 J B’s Island 161 Pain Insane 162 Hat

This and that: 164 IRA 165 Gulf 166 Tree 167 Cole Porter’s Gone Sick, Song!

169 Lock 170 Extraordinary doggerel! 171 Crazy

Poetry written in Greece: 173 KOS 174 Eclipse in Greece 175 Lardy Birds 176 Mountain 177 Legs 178 Her Name

Odds and ends: 180 Age 181 Perhaps 182 Sleepwalking 183 Assignation 2 185 Spent 186 Elena PanayiDou (perhaps) 188 Going 189 And… 191 Snow-balling 192 Colleen 193 Smudges 194 Death 195 Church Bells 196 Sorry 197 The Game 198 A Big Poem! 199 There is a Place 200 Hospital Poem 201 Bempton 202 Walking 203 Sorry, Scott Holland 204 Strikes Wood

205 Supposing 206 Sparrow 207 Sure Love 208 Black Dress 209 Trials 210 A Puddy Cat 211 Bird Table 212 Escape 213 Seventy 214 Willow 216 The Magnolia and the Maple tree 217 Our flooded House

Painful Poetry Part Two 218 Alzheimer’s 219 Information 220 Separation 221 Ghetto

Peter J Scott writes an eclectic mix of novels and books, some very different from this one. Go to: https://sites.google.com/site/peterjscottwriter/homehome - to discover more.