24 April 2012
In oak clad vale, before time-weary flames a hundred bards, story-tellers, and those that remember those things long lost and forgotten, did meet but once every four-score years and ten. Dishes of beast and field were roasted, and juices of grape and grain were mulled, poured and reheated. These people were perhaps ones such as us, in whose words whole worlds were built, and on whose stops such worlds that had never and ever been, could end. Around such folk as were gather played an ancient song, one that seemed the very walls to make strong and quiet. And as this song of time to its middle went, its tune changed but subtly, and one tale-teller to you would speak:
Then as evenings repast did wend, And evening’s twilight felt its end, Words turned to tales of many a height, Candles guttering, There was a heart in the muttering. And stories framed with wine, he stepped forth and held court with thine.
And so as one before us wrote of them lost, and sometimes found, There was a yarn yet to be unwound.
Yet begun, the scene we paint, In colours bright, vivid, yet oddly quaint. Two lovers met, no doubt in ladies boudoir. In words ancient still spake, ‘voulez vous couches avec moi ?’
In tall looking-glass we carefully trace, A woman yet still a girl in face, Behind her stands her beau, Desperate his way, his feeling yet to show.
“Kiss me not, for you love me not” Quoth she, love-sick. And he, for his part, was wounded twice as quick. “For surely, as mine and your heart doth beat, do they not yet beat together?” And in the mirror, her face not-read, a frown creased her brow un-furrowed. A step closer, and faces two the mirror framed. “How then can I answer, when one who claims to know mine heart, knows yet not his own? For clearly as your eyes do gaze, do they not as clearly see? Dancing in time is not to own. And purchase, so swiftly made, is not often sought. You speak golden words, but of my love, that is not yet bought.”
Rejection, but keenly felt, dulled the fellows blade but a little. His hope, somehow aspied, his cause he pressed but softly. His eyes her reflection met, and she, for her part, was pleased in the meeting. Steady yet stealthy was the gaze from molten honey to polished jade, and vice-versa one to the other held. In vision, true embrace, but not yet its passion matched, his imploration felt its forward step. “Mine words are but echo-soft, their tempo matched by most pulsing heat. And yet they go sight-unseen, for is not love blind? I cannot see you, and from your vision mine facade is lost. But look past that which you cannot see, and find in there a place most hidden.”
Something in these, his honest words, touched gladness, and yet a touch forbidden, felt in it some spring of madness, also some other humours in here, unbidden. “Of sacred places now you speak, and would see mine hidden?” A blush upon fields of snow, a poppy did bloom upon each cheek. And with flowers freshly bloomed, fresh life did glisten, his yes now mirth-touched, her heart, he knew, did listen. “Oh aye, perhaps, but places forbidden have hidden path, and such by love am I blinded; only if led by hands surety could I find such cunningly concealed.” Perhaps flowers then bloomed on every field, or so it seemed, for aside his face, crimson fields now slowly formed. Their opiate perfume did seep most fully into atmosphere, and guided by dreams deep scent did thought and form take their shape. “So in mine hand you would have me take you? Have not mine lips guided enough? A poor pilot would you make, with worded rutter clear to guide, still not your ship you harbour.” A veritable field of poppy now bloomed, the airy breathe so sweet; and to the harvest must now they be taken. Tarry not did he, nor crush them ‘neath his hurried feet. With thoughts of port-side now he moved, and yard-arm raised to tender dock, passions heady wind he sailed. Where once mast had hung with canvas cock-a-bill, now fresh winds pushed lustily from behind. “Applesauce and goose feathers, for geese and gander are yet equal. Your heart I know, for it is mine, and for your part mine you must know. For you have claimed it truly now.” And with words spoken, and some yet unsaid; in song sweet and strong, and in embrace sweeter still, did love raise its head. In hunger and unwary heat, Our two lovers’ wants did meet, In sweet tongue did ardour find its verse, And in time grew faster still, for better or, perhaps, for worse. And so as one before me wrote, Of the lost and yet sometimes found, With this tale, as was, perhaps half done, I tell you now of loves labour, Rightly, and sweetly, Won.
After Eighths • Opuss № I