On wintering nights of bitter frost when all the warmth of life is lost;
as spectral mist swirls in the air...
I think of you with the fragrant hair.

When wind is moaning in the pines and icy fingers touch the spine,
as strangled autumn slowly dies...
I think of you with the laughing eyes.

When darkened clouds, foreboding doom, fly swift, before a leprous moon;
as hoarfrost from the blackthorn drips...
I think of you with the soft, sweet lips.

When hail, its palsied fingers train and scrabble on the windowpane;
as gables whimper under tile...
I think of you with the gentle smile.

When, on such bleak and bitter nights, primeval fear lurks out of sight,
and frightened thoughts, dark tendrils trace...
I think of you with the radiant face.

No earth-bound force can misalign the shuttered refuge of my mind.
Encompassed in that secret place...
My soft, sweet thoughts of you.

If you should climb the Limestone heights that ring the Vale of Gloucester, fair;
and follow the old Roman Fosse; within the hour, you will be where
an echo of the Old ways whispers still... beware! Yet, may remain
something of the legend that besets this place... this dark domain.
For, on the Wolds there stands a hill...
and, on the hill, there stands a wood...
but in the wood, no Rowan grows; and it is said... you really should
take care, if there, you foolish venture in... 'less, you be lost, as well;
For this is Wychwood... how well named.
Its shadowy tale, I now will tell.

lt is told... a young farmhand was cutting Hazel wands one day
to make a clutch of hurdles, for to pen the sheep... oft, want to stray.
When he was by a stand of Rowans, he espied a fair, young maid
laying in a grassy bower... bodice torn, skirts disarrayed.
Thinking she was victim of some importunement... to her side
the farmhand rushed; bent to her... and froze, as her eyes flashed open wide.
And, before his eyes, she changed... no more, blonde hair and eyes of green;
now... a dark-haired, red-lipped beauty...
Arelanna... Wychwood Queen.

Who held him, as one holds a fledgling sparrow, with her depth-less eyes...
her raven hair a'tumbling round her milky shoulders, undisguised.
She studied him with coal-black eyes, her lips made free a tiny smile...
"Come", she said, "for I have need of you, for just a little while."
And led him deep into the stand of Rowans... far, far out of sight,
and slipped her gown before him, standing red of lip, with *******... so white;
and pulled him to her; saying, "Come... for now, we shall beget a child...
a boy; to be the Wychwood King... and I shall name him... Arlafylde.

And so, the Great Rite was performed... the young farmhand... 'naught, but a pawn;
no pleasure found, 'nor offered; just a cold, sick dread of what had dawned
on this spring day which started, just like any other in the year...
but now, he watched her face beset by pleasure... and knew only fear.
She said, "You will not speak of this, or I shall bind you all in spell...
your crops will fail... your beasts will sicken, if, but one soul, you would tell."
Then, the scales fell from his eyes; alone, he stood upon the hill...
and yet, the scoring of her nails upon his back... he felt them still.

He did not speak of this again for many years... his thoughts were sealed;
until upon his deathbed, then, the Wychwood secret, he revealed.
And so the village gathered, and elected they should rid the wood
of Arelanna, Wychwood Queen,  and of her ungodly brood.
They climbed the hill with flaring links, all armed with Holy Water, too...
and circling round the stand of Rowan; therein... Holy water threw.
But not the Arelanna they expected; stumbled from the stand...
no dark-eyed, red-lipped beauty... but a wizened crone with claw-like hands.

The crone was bundled down the hill, and cast upon the village green...
and there, they hanged her out of hand... no trial... no justice to be seen.
They searched again to find the boy... 'though now, in truth; should he exist,
he would be full-grown... but they found 'naught; though nothing there, was missed.
But, what they did not know was this...  Arlafylde watched his mother dance
upon the rope; a shadowy figure in the night... not worth a glance.
Had they but seen his burning eyes; or felt his thoughts that flamed, so bright...
"Now; they shall all know, indeed, why it is they fear the night."

Misfortunes then began to happen... sudden deaths, all unexplained;
cattle dying in the pastures... thatches bursting into flames.
Pestilence and ague creeping... wells befouled, and blighted corn;
injuries that would not mend... the village cursed, and all forlorn.
And, then one day, there came a stranger; darkly cloaked, who walked with grace.
Who knocked upon the Parson's door... cast off the hood, and showed her face.
A dark-haired, red-lipped beauty; eyes as black as coal, with milky skin...
She spoke...
"I am Fenella; daughter of Arelanna... let me in."

This beauty was the first-born child of Arelanna, Wychwood Queen;
conceived in the same manner as her brother,  Arlafylde had so been;
but Arelanna cast her out... a girl-child was not her desire...
and kindly souls had found her, and had shared their home... their hearth... their fire.
And so, Fenella; 'though she had the magic, chose the shining way,
and now, had come to pay the debt she said she owed; from darker days.
She said, "Fear not; my Brother uses magic blemished with his hate;
but, I still hold my mother's instinct for this Art; t'is not too late."

Early in the morning when the Sun was fresh, and all was new;
Fenella climbed the hill to Wychwood, all alone... this thing to do.
To meet her brother for the first, and last time....which one would prevail?
Then she was lost from sight; they said a darkening cloud beset the hill...
and in it, they saw bolts of bright blue lightning, but, there was no crash
of thunder; not a sound to hear... then suddenly... a blinding flash;
and then, the cloud was gone... but where? The people could not understand...
and, there! Fenella walking down... a sprig of Rowan in her hand.

"The deed is done," she softly said, " My evil brother is no more...
'nor, is there now a stand of Rowan cluttering the woodland floor;
for, though the Rowan is a beneficial, magic tree for me;
so polluted, was it, by my mother's deeds... it could not stay.
But... I have sealed the evil in this tiny sprig for just a while...
just long enough to have it blessed; just long enough to un-defile
this little plant, so it may grow again to guard your lives once more
against the darkness you have known, against all that has gone before."

Fenella stayed, and married in the village beneath Wychwood Hill.
Her grave is in the small churchyard. Fenella is remembered still.
For, every year the children come with Rowan sprigs; which then, they lay
upon her grave; in memory still, of what she did for them, that day.
And, on the Wolds there stands a hill...
and, on the hill there stands a wood...
but in the wood, no Rowan grows; and it is said... you really should
take care, if there, you foolish venture in... because a standing stone...
for all the world... shaped like a man, stands in a clearing... all alone.

How do I begin to write and formulate a truthful verse?
How can I draw with pencilled line; what I cannot describe in words?
For who can etch the wakening dawn... the promise of a young spring day?
and who can hold a snowflake and describe it, 'ere it melts away?

These are such problems as I face each time I try to capture you
in words, or lines... it's just the same; you still elude me, come what may.
But, what is this elusive part of you which never can be found?
Is it Beauty, Radiance; Grace?... or just Charisma; sweet, profound?

The answer to this circumstance would seem a simple point of view,
the key to this conundrum lies within the way I look at you.
For I should look with Artist eyes, that calculate the shapes I see;
but I would look with lover's eyes...
and thus, am lost... so hopelessly.

The wind is gusting cold tonight, a symphony of howl and whine,
whipping callously, the straining trees; a sure, and certain sign
that soon, the storm will break upon us; see, it gathers, fitfully
to Westward, in a lowering sky...
I wish you were still here, with me.

Scurrying through the ragged, scudding clouds; the timorous, pale moon darts.
The smell of rain is in the wind; and soon then, will the fury start.
The vented jealousy the storm inflicts on nature's springtime charms;
ravishing the blossom...
how I wish you were here, in my arms.

This is no gentle, springtime zephyr, whispering softly in the trees,
some tiny, timid entity that whimpers quietly, round the eaves,
no...
this wind has a banshee wail; like souls condemned; so long since, dead;
How I wish your soft, sweet warmth
lay next to me in this cold bed.

And now, the rain is lashing at the casement, clattering the glass
obstinate in its defiance; leaded firm against the blast
of the driving, bitter rain the wind wields so maliciously;
How I wish that I could feel
your gentle heartbeat next to me.

Suddenly, the room is lit... a blinding flash of violet-blue;
a crashing clap of thunder, and I smile;
for, I remember, you
hate electric storms; and, when they came, how close you clung to me;
your face, tight buried in my chest...
another sweet, soft memory.

Much later now; the wind has spent its wrath. the rain has almost done,
the timid moon is floating in a star-shot sky; the morning Sun
will soon be climbing over fresh washed, springtime meadows... sweet and green;
But there will only be one set of footprints
where two should have been.

Perhaps, one day, we'll meet again; this love affair, perhaps... renew;
for, though the time has drifted past, I know, full well, I still love you;
and, if fate is kind, there may appear out in those meadows, green
two sets of footprints, side by side...
where only one, can now be seen.

A thousand poets spun a dream that lasted for a thousand years,
then you were born, at last, my love...
and thus, were all their hopes fulfilled.

I dreamed with them, so long ago... and, in my dream, your face was clear,
then, you were gone... like morning dew;
my peace of mind abandoned me.

Now, like the spring... you come again; alas, you are too late, my love.
For, though the memory lingers still...
I have forgotten how to dream.

Exquisitely, I burn for you...but, nothing can this hurt allay,
for I am chained, and you are free...
the Nemesis of a misty dream.

Her thoughts stand fresh upon the page, her hand is large... the letters, round;
the weaving of her hopes, and dreams, as she sails through her sweet springtime.
The clear, bright vision of the young, as yet, un-marred.... as yet, unbound
by frown that fickle fate may gift... by sadness, that may spoil her rhyme.

And so, she sails upon the dream of Love she knows, is hers to find;
broken hearts and shattered dreams for now,  lie cloaked, and far away.
Her song of Love... a Symphony, that shines so brightly in her mind;
and not a cloud across her skies, so blue; where her thoughts dance, and play.

Yet, sometimes, she may timidly, and swiftly peek into that place
as yet unknown...
the Labyrinth of sadness... where we wander, lost, and quite alone,
where Love lies bleeding... she has not yet, seen that face;
Her poem... sad; no, not for her; and crumpled, in the bin is thrown.

Young Poetess, hold firm your dream;
be true to what your heart would say,
for there are many in this world
would try to ****** your dream away.

If you asked somebody what the opposite of "Love" might be;
their answer... almost without thinking, would be "Hate"... invariably.
But, is this really so? For characteristically; both Love, and Hate
share so much intense emotion, they are hard to separate.
For one who hates, is bound in thrall to the object of their hatred,
in the way Love binds together deep emotions... never sated.
Those who hate are never free; always, by their hate... obsessed,
and, like Love, they need to have this yearning physically expressed.

Perhaps, then... Hate is not the opposite of Love, as most would guess.
Perhaps, the opposite is Separation... that true loneliness.
For Love draws us together; separation is free-falling Hell;
at best... a cold indifference;
at worst...
the creeping, dread, Death-knell
for hopes and dreams; the cruel, deliberate, isolation of a Heart;
for there, lies loneliness, depression...
there, despair must surely start.
And with despair, the heart may hide, and, for itself, a prison make;
forgetting how to give its love...
remembering only, how to take.

Perhaps, then Separation, truly, is the opposite of Love;
and yet, there are more enemies, that creep about, and softly move;
weakening a love, perhaps, neglected by complacency;
by taking things for granted...
all those little things, we just don't see.
Like Inattentiveness, Contempt; Unloving, and Destructive ways...
Corrosive Criticism; Frequent Absence, Arguing for Days;
Opportunities for Intimacy ignored, or worse... denied;
no sanctuary for a wounded Love;
just cold acceptance it has died.

These things, they are the Enemies... insidiously, they work away,
undermining what was once a strong, safe love...
until one day,
the fortress is so weakened, that some stranger, knocking on the door
will breach the last defence, and then, the Love that was, will be no more.
So, there you have the double face of love...
a cautionary tale
of how a Love might touch the sky, and then, how such a Love might fail.
For Love is all you'll ever need; but, just take heed of what you do
with Love,
for if you cherish it; Love, always will be kind to you.