How quickly now, has summer passed; how soon then, do the seasons turn
and Autumn is all but upon us... see, the leaves begin to burn
all gold and amber in the ailing Sun; the days are drawing in;
the damp, and chilly nights beset with creeping mists will soon begin.
A spiteful Eastern wind comes snatching at the fragile Golden cloak
that Autumn dons to hide her gauntness... wilfully, it probes and pokes
about the treetops, stripping off her modesty from shivering bones...
her cloak blown spinning, rent and tattered;
on the wind... her plundered gold.

High above the treeline, crouching darkly under quickening skies,
all swept by whimpering, fractious wind, the hollow hills, all gorse-strewn lie
so silent now... once full of laughter, where we frolicked in the spring,
tumbling in the fresh, sweet grass... it really was the sweetest thing.
But, that was then; now all is silent, but, for one sharp, piercing cry...
gazing up, I watch a Kestrel, wheeling graceful in the sky,
to hover on the wind, before her stoop... in perfect symmetry;
you said it was your favourite creature last time you were here with me.

Gazing down across the valley slumbering in the evening mist;
wood smoke curling languid, fragrant; memories of when we kissed
the last time we were here; your lips so soft, your pretty eyes so bright;
perhaps, your memories linger too... wherever you may be, tonight.
Rooks, in ones and twos, drift over; mournful calls all echoing,
as they return to woodland night-roosts, whilst the velvet dusk creeps in.
The time has come to leave the hollow hills, once more... I do miss you;
I wonder, sometimes, for a moment... do you still think of me, too?

The Sun, no more than Golden shadows lengthening in the western sky;
I turn, and walk back through wind-pillaged, rustling leaves... how deep they lie.
The torn and scattered Golden cloak of Autumn; little now remains;
the winds of change drove us apart; perhaps, we may yet, meet again.
To walk the hollow hills together... break the silence, just once more
with frolicking and laughter, and with loving... as we did before;
to watch the Kestrels hover on the wind, smell wood smoke in the air;
perhaps, next year... when Autumn dons her golden cloak...
I'll meet you there.

You say my words are beautiful; Thank You, Milady,You are kind.
They are... but thoughts; and, in my thoughts, You are always somewhere, there.
But, no surprise; for, when I write them, You dance brightly, in my mind,
and thus, explains perhaps, why words I rhyme are ever, sweet, and fair.

Yet, words I craft, are, but pale shadow of sweet thoughts I hold for You.
Such pictures that my heart would paint, cannot be compassed round with rhyme.
Such words do not exist... save, deep within the Soul... it is quite true;
and thus, cannot be written here, and I needs-must fail... every time.

Yet, though pale shadow, they may be, they have sweet virtue; they speak true;
and thus, may stand, as Portrait of a Love soft whispered, from the heart;
that cannot not dim as drifting years unwind... my tiny gift to You,
a sweet-versed Immortality; to shine, long after we depart.

These Heart-thoughts, echoing down the years; someday, should they be read by chance,
will whisper... She was truly loved; indeed, this was a Grand Romance.

Tomorrow is another day; as yet, untouched, all fresh and new;
no footsteps in the mist, no whispered memory... no thoughts of you.
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to feel the shadows softly slip away;
Tomorrow then, perhaps, to walk out in the Sun...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; a bright new page in time, and space;
perhaps, tomorrow, I may not recall your smile... your voice... your face.
Perhaps, tomorrow, thoughts of what we might have been, will fade away;
Tomorrow, then, perhaps, to turn the page at last...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, its promise is the same
as yesterday
for you are ever there, and, always, you remain
somewhere in my thoughts... a tender, sweet, unfinished Symphony,
Perhaps, tomorrow, I can write the last few notes...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; for now, your memory lingers still,
and tip-toes softly through my heart... and, I suppose it always will;
The echo of a long-lost love; how strange, such memories still stray;
Tomorrow, perhaps, I might lay your Ghost to rest...
but, not today.

Tomorrow is another day; and yet, I know what it will hold.
No bright, warm flame of love; but, in its place... the spent, grey ashes...
cold,
of what was once, so nearly "Us." How did it fade, and slip away?
Tomorrow, perhaps, you could please set free my heart...
but, not today.

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.