Part III: Reconciliation (written one month after Part II)
I
Give pardon to an amateur's writer's block
As she searches for signs within and without.
Verse is not as easy as mending a sock,
That which an old man is known to moan about
The lack thereof, in all Christmas presents, hark!
Who dares deny the wizard greatest throughout?
To return, tempted as she is to change to prose,
Yet having begun, continues down her course.
II
It is said that a tale is only a tale
With no more substance than a thought or shadow.
We tellers spin songs and suspense without fail;
Faceless, nameless souls luring those who follow.
Player play their part beneath Fantasy's veil,
Long after we leave for the Greener Meadow.
Happily, if you still wish to note their fate,
By all means read on, before the hour grows late.
III
The girl has spoken, as one remembers,
Although she might just as well be mute.
Her voice reaches not his ear as she prefers,
Nor breaks what invisible wall he has built.
He reminds her proper of gothic chambers,
Filled with boiling cauldrons watched on by a newt.
Neither thought helping her to connect her with him,
Recollects herself, as she maintains her beam.
IV
Such men her mother cautions are dangerous;
She cannot be sure, as she has never met.
His solemn stillness makes her grow ponderous;
She yearns to engage him in a jovial chat.
Still she refrains, lest he thinks her frivolous,
Aiming thus to go as far as she will get.
Courteous, she asks if he is a traveller,
Only to receive a cold, flat, "Silly girl."
V
He starts abusing the lass' kind intention.
The more he speaks, the more wounding his comments,
Further wrapped in boredom and mock protestation;
The more he speaks, the more he loathes his attempts,
Yet derives perverse pleasure in her condition
Of seeming unease and regretful laments.
Now she will rage or weep if terror conquers
And so he is amazed when she chuckles.
VI
She continues, amused by his expression,
A mix of consternation and confusion.
Upon seeing anger swiftly joining tension,
Comes a sudden particularly odd vision:
She, a student, being given detention,
By him, filling her with mild apprehension.
Mild the fear is, which then quickly vanishes,
Like dry autumn leaves burning in to ashes.
VII
An unusual sight to behold that bright day,
Atop the quiet, unimposing hill.
A man so sullen; a girl so light and gay.
Having stopped laughing, she presses on with zeal;
Pauses now and then to let him have his say.
He having none, goes on with spirited will,
Heartened by his silence, strange as that may sound,
Unaware of Phoebus heading homeward bound.
VIII
She talks of the hills and trees that spread across;
She shows from her heart the haven she adores;
Telling him of swallows from some unknown source;
Pointing at the village everyone ignores.
Gentle folks live there, no one is ever coarse.
All are welcome, their houses, there are no doors.
A Utopia, who knows that it can be found,
Where all good, natural and wholesome surround.
IX
She watches in secret as she keeps talking.
From him leaves the poison from Suspicion's dart.
The breeze whirls about as they begin walking,
Unconscious on his part; gladness in her heart.
He does not look at her though at her asking,
Looks where she beckons without a single but.
Two strangers side by side, together for once,
In a circle they have made their own by chance.
X
At last they settle at a secluded end,
Facing the sun that slowly disappears,
Letting velvet night cover the sleeping land
With high above twinkling like diamond tears.
Unchanging stars on whom explorers depend,
Guide the lost whose cries of help nobody hears.
The girl has long seized her rambling monologue;
She has done what troubadours write in their log.
XI
She knows she cannot change or make him friendly.
Melancholy beneath the harshness remains.
Though the hideous emptiness that rules him mainly
Has been replaced by what she hopes he retains.
A dawning light shining through his eyes plainly
Proves a new calm and ease he gradually gains.
They stay there as they are, forgetting to sup,
As the soothing voices of the choir float up.
XII
Mass is finally over, the clock strikes eight,
Surprising them for they have not been aware
Of previous times the church-boy rings with his might.
She then turns to him thinking to say take care,
Before going home after bidding good night.
Touched hence she is when he gives more time to share.
In a surreal moment, they stroll down the path,
And as they reach the gates he stops in his path
"Thank you," he whispers, and left.
Author's Note: Great Scots! I managed to finish it. Ilona if you are reading this, thank you for your up-lifting reviews. I'm not very good at poetry really, and there are certain parts here I'm still not too pleased with, but hey, one gotta have a shot at something new sometimes.
I
Give pardon to an amateur's writer's block
As she searches for signs within and without.
Verse is not as easy as mending a sock,
That which an old man is known to moan about
The lack thereof, in all Christmas presents, hark!
Who dares deny the wizard greatest throughout?
To return, tempted as she is to change to prose,
Yet having begun, continues down her course.
II
It is said that a tale is only a tale
With no more substance than a thought or shadow.
We tellers spin songs and suspense without fail;
Faceless, nameless souls luring those who follow.
Player play their part beneath Fantasy's veil,
Long after we leave for the Greener Meadow.
Happily, if you still wish to note their fate,
By all means read on, before the hour grows late.
III
The girl has spoken, as one remembers,
Although she might just as well be mute.
Her voice reaches not his ear as she prefers,
Nor breaks what invisible wall he has built.
He reminds her proper of gothic chambers,
Filled with boiling cauldrons watched on by a newt.
Neither thought helping her to connect her with him,
Recollects herself, as she maintains her beam.
IV
Such men her mother cautions are dangerous;
She cannot be sure, as she has never met.
His solemn stillness makes her grow ponderous;
She yearns to engage him in a jovial chat.
Still she refrains, lest he thinks her frivolous,
Aiming thus to go as far as she will get.
Courteous, she asks if he is a traveller,
Only to receive a cold, flat, "Silly girl."
V
He starts abusing the lass' kind intention.
The more he speaks, the more wounding his comments,
Further wrapped in boredom and mock protestation;
The more he speaks, the more he loathes his attempts,
Yet derives perverse pleasure in her condition
Of seeming unease and regretful laments.
Now she will rage or weep if terror conquers
And so he is amazed when she chuckles.
VI
She continues, amused by his expression,
A mix of consternation and confusion.
Upon seeing anger swiftly joining tension,
Comes a sudden particularly odd vision:
She, a student, being given detention,
By him, filling her with mild apprehension.
Mild the fear is, which then quickly vanishes,
Like dry autumn leaves burning in to ashes.
VII
An unusual sight to behold that bright day,
Atop the quiet, unimposing hill.
A man so sullen; a girl so light and gay.
Having stopped laughing, she presses on with zeal;
Pauses now and then to let him have his say.
He having none, goes on with spirited will,
Heartened by his silence, strange as that may sound,
Unaware of Phoebus heading homeward bound.
VIII
She talks of the hills and trees that spread across;
She shows from her heart the haven she adores;
Telling him of swallows from some unknown source;
Pointing at the village everyone ignores.
Gentle folks live there, no one is ever coarse.
All are welcome, their houses, there are no doors.
A Utopia, who knows that it can be found,
Where all good, natural and wholesome surround.
IX
She watches in secret as she keeps talking.
From him leaves the poison from Suspicion's dart.
The breeze whirls about as they begin walking,
Unconscious on his part; gladness in her heart.
He does not look at her though at her asking,
Looks where she beckons without a single but.
Two strangers side by side, together for once,
In a circle they have made their own by chance.
X
At last they settle at a secluded end,
Facing the sun that slowly disappears,
Letting velvet night cover the sleeping land
With high above twinkling like diamond tears.
Unchanging stars on whom explorers depend,
Guide the lost whose cries of help nobody hears.
The girl has long seized her rambling monologue;
She has done what troubadours write in their log.
XI
She knows she cannot change or make him friendly.
Melancholy beneath the harshness remains.
Though the hideous emptiness that rules him mainly
Has been replaced by what she hopes he retains.
A dawning light shining through his eyes plainly
Proves a new calm and ease he gradually gains.
They stay there as they are, forgetting to sup,
As the soothing voices of the choir float up.
XII
Mass is finally over, the clock strikes eight,
Surprising them for they have not been aware
Of previous times the church-boy rings with his might.
She then turns to him thinking to say take care,
Before going home after bidding good night.
Touched hence she is when he gives more time to share.
In a surreal moment, they stroll down the path,
And as they reach the gates he stops in his path
"Thank you," he whispers, and left.
Author's Note: Great Scots! I managed to finish it. Ilona if you are reading this, thank you for your up-lifting reviews. I'm not very good at poetry really, and there are certain parts here I'm still not too pleased with, but hey, one gotta have a shot at something new sometimes.
