As the language of the night settles in,
with a candle raised to the sky.
The way ahead is slippery and sodden
—a vanishing point, a future sigh.
A gloved hand held, we wend our way
to the rolling river, quiet and moody.
The conspiring trees shake their bones
at your subtle ceramic beauty.
Your trusting eyes make no plea
as you submerge under the darkened depths.
Your silken arms are the last I see,
the last twinkling that the moon protects.
I walk with you, across the many bridges
that lead us out to the troubled seas.
I’ll wait for you on the silent shore,
framed in judgement by those ageless trees.
Written for dVerse Poetics and inspired by the paintings of John Atkinson Grimshaw, whom I’d never heard of before, but can see very clearly an England that I feel very familiar with. While the use of light in the paintings is somewhat seductive, I couldn’t help but let the darkness in with a story of forbidden love ending in quiet tragedy.
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
