"But finally you find that you have people of flesh and blood on your hands, people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort." (Harold Pinter)
The old mill stands still, in the frozen landscape; there, they worked, had fun, sometime loved. Now, there is only emptiness, silent stones, pale ghosts recounting long forgotten stories. All round lived once a multitude, poor but hopeful. Children were born, iron was cast, dreams were woven. Why they all left, what was their fate, did they lose faith? We dare not ask the ravens, and shall never know.
Yesterday… We walked in this valley, under the burning sun, hand in hand, believing in the eternal summer. Yesterday, perhaps, more than you, my love, I longed for Autumn, and the fall of leaves. Did I believe Time had stopped? Did I believe Earth was flat, after all?
Or was I inebriated, drunk in our love?
But now, Winter has come, silent, ineluctable: the hills are white with snow, our shoes leave no trace on the frozen ground. Nature has taken back what is hers, the air is cold, yesterday’s azure sky is now deep grey.
The light is out.
The moor already wears its autumn veil, and, soon, we will be home. I know what you will say, when we walk up the hill, towards the place we have chosen for our retreat.
“Look! He’s waiting for us, he’s there, can you see him?”
But I know that only you can see him, that he ever appears only for you, through the ancient mist of long gone times.
For you are his beloved, the one he lost, when the Earth was young, and I, poor mortal, was but dust in a distant star.
And, as always, I will say:
“Yes, I can see him, bless our guardian, the watcher over our fragile spirits…”
The woods are asleep, all is immobile, and silent, under the searing heat. Well, not all. For the unforgiving eye is there, ensuring nothing escapes. For this is our fate: we have plundered and polluted our world, and, now, we will pay the price.
They were six of them, and their leader may have been Galahad. There, they fought, back to back, from one dawn to the next, for days and nights, against the armies of Evil.
There they died, for, then, knights never surrendered. And there, the circle of stones remind us: the battle continues, and they watch us, puzzled, at times amused, more often annoyed. So much effort, for such so small people…
“It looks like cotton…” she said in a calm voice, “Only, there is no-one working here.”
The landscape was quiet, the never disturbed peace of late summer.
“And there is no shadow…” She added, with a sigh. Did she mean “shade”?
He looked up, toward the darker patches of green, beyond the meadow. Small white clouds leisurely walked the sky. He then looked down at his feet. It is then he realised what she had meant: they no longer had shadows…
They must have crossed the border, in this silence, from the land of the living, to the land of memories.
Time had stopped.
The tall trees shelter us from the heat, high above the still green leaves. The path is a ruler, one cannot go wrong. But the woods are silent, nothing stirs, and we know we are observed. Someone, somewhere, is counting our steps, deciphering our minds.
Soon, we will know.
They danced around the old stone, young and old, to the sound of pipes and drums, evoking ancient spirits, and secret deities. Then the elders had let the villagers hang the colours of their wishes, and he had waited a little while.
He wanted the spirits to grant him one favour. As he carefully bound the piece of red and white ribbon to the branch, he thought of Her, of the calm dark eyes that had held him in awe, of the unreal grace of Her face: he was only asking to see Her again, to speak to Her, to beg Her to accept him in Her kingdom.
The shallow, clear water runs lazily between the rocks,
and the little islands of green life.
Oft we crossed the old bridge,
On our many walks, through this blessed land,
Observing, and being observed,
by creatures far more ancient, and wiser, than us.
Oft, we looked at our reflections in the mirror below.
Only, now, we only see the light of the sky,
for our images have been erased.
