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'Put your dreams into a bottle
and cast them away to the sea.
Let the tides carry them afar
then turn your back and forget me'.
The old lane meandered through the city
lined with stone walls, hedges and metal gates.
Out of the city it wended its way
to the site of many a fayre and fete.
On the edge of the field was an old mill
its waterwheel gone and timbers rotted.
But the stones of centuries stood up tall
around which vines of ivy were knotted.
It was here that I first saw her soft face
gliding from tree to tree shaking the leaves.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
dancing in the morning and misty eves.
A well worn path leads off down to a beach
a haven of beauty next to the sea.
As I felt the sand beneath my bare feet
I turned to see that she had followed me.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
smiled at me from behind her long dark hair.
Closing the gap across the warming sand
her slender fingers slip in to my hand.
Rock formations jut up to the blue sky
the scattered remnants of huge cliffs of stone.
Random sea shells pepper the shore line edge,
some flat and shallow, some shaped like cones.
Driftwood and kelp lay basking in the sun
in rhythmic notes the sea sings out her song.
I bend to pick up a blue glass bottle
finding that the girl had vanished and gone.
For this lack of attention I chided,
unlike the salt water I was angry.
Oh my manners appalled my very core
and I launched the bottle out to the sea.
The beach looked more deserted than forever
with its bleached driftwood and its flaccid kelp.
I saw the bottle arc through the still air,
as I turned I heard a whisper for help.
A glint from the blue glass in the bright sun
as it was swallowed by the ocean wide.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
sank below the white cap waves as she cried.
Heartbroken and sad I saw my dreams sink,
tears rose in my eyes and I turned my back.
Of a sudden the Lady fades from thought
and I re-traced our steps back to the track.
Thirty years to the day and to the time
I walk to the field down the old mill lane,
the many seasons have borne little change,
I dare to think of the Lady again.
But I truly knew I would not see her
shaking the leaves nor hiding in the green.
Still the melancholy hangs like a blind
of little glimpses of what might have been.
Stones on the old mill have crumbled away
and the feeding stream long since running dry.
I wander to the path down to the sea
and on to the spot where my Lady died.
Sat on a log toes buried in the sand
I think of what may well have come to pass,
and note with a deep sense of irony
my toe cut by shards of bottle blue glass.
This sentimental walk has reached its end,
retreating I turn my back to the sea.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
ever remains a mystery to me.
© Pagan Paul (29/05/20)
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