I have been thinking about how fictional worlds thread with our realities,
how if you read a book,
watch a film,
see a play,
the subject matter and themes will unconsciously make their way into your daydreams,
I had been watching pride and prejudice,
thinking of Pemberley Estate,
the countryside,
how English hills can flood with hanging low mist,
overcast and soft,
mild, almost ethereal,
or how it may tear itself open,
on ripe summer days,
the ground verdant and full,
I see an image of us, by a lake,
perhaps an old-fashioned picnic basket,
cherries, peaches, strawberries, plums,
feeding each-other grapes,
we could dip our feet in the water,
laze and kiss and,
have all in the time in the world somehow.
I would have a book of poetry,
Sappho perhaps, Elizabeth Bishop, Emily Dickinson,
I could show you the ones I think you might like,
feed you a strawberry,
read you wild nights,
our hair and hands all tangled,
our words and thoughts entwined too,
and we forget all about the beautiful countryside, and the fruit, and the poetry,
for moments and moments.

Dust specks-settle,
cosying up to the ribbon bound notebooks
bearing your initials.
Burying this artefact,
flawed, fractured there will be no map
to guide you back to this mirth, no breadcrumbs to drop on the earth.
It will be no more than a prologue, a seam unwoven to grab momentary attention
until I sweep all away with steel grip on an exuding artery.
Is Hubris not a deadly sin?
As it lays in tatters at my feet.,
Foolish, foolhardy to have believed that all was a world of Thornfield or Pemberley
more apt is naeive.
The disparate views,that were sent by you undermined by certainty,unhinged the very bolts and nuts that held my infastructure.
Transfixed. Transfigured. Transformed into this 'new'.
Alas the day, arrives anyway the lark sings a merry tune and it thunderstorms, drops leaves life leaves the dew.
To be candid, I pocess within me one last spark it splutters and at times can ignite, for teaching me an invaluble truth.
Unrequited love, This partisan
bear with caution- leaves a scar-  a victim.

Ever since I moved to a different time period, I get the strangest mail.

Letters commissioning Michelangelo
to paint the Sistine Chapel.

Elizabeth Bennet's missive to her aunt
promising pony cart rides at Pemberley.

Long lost IRS tax forms belonging to Abbott and Costello.

Leonardo Da Vinci’s Job Application to the Duke of Milan.

Even Grace Bedell's charming correspondence to Abraham Lincoln, suggesting he grow a beard.

I should have known something was up once I discovered Karl Malone was my mailman.

Your fine eyes and lively wit
first caught his attention,
your light, lush figure
he discerned upon closer inspection.

You then had the audacity
to speak your mind,
to tell your unwanted suitor
where to go.

Nonetheless, what did he find?
A young lady brimming
with charm and intelligence,
a country girl of unrivaled specialness.

And hither came his letter,
an eye-opening missive,
a charitable benediction
that proved redemptive.

Here your prejudice began to be
worked on for the better,
its constant hold relenting
until it unfettered altogether.

His agony of rejection
soon warred against his pride,
his ardency for you
could not be denied.

A chance encounter
and you were
at once astonished
at what your heart did reveal,

his intense stare warmed your cheeks,
his kind words
and acts of goodness
then sealed the deal.

You could love no other.
And in this blissful denouement
you agreed to become his wife and lover.
Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley...