Owls hoot softly above me and ravens cry
I dash the oppressive mist before my eyes
My mount is restive, tossing his head
Can he feel what is filling me with dread?
I cluck gently, urging him into a trot
We gather speed toward God knows what
The mist gathers and the night is still
Save the thud of Ed’s hooves and a strange high trill
And the pounding of my own unquiet heart
What strange power makes this night, what black art?
Soon the ill-fashioned path
Opens into a wide and wild swath
Of greenland, thick with herbiage and stinging nettles
Afar off I fancy I hear a whistling kettle
Now I arrive at a cottage in a clearing
I dismount, pat Ed’s twitching flank, fearing
The ride has been too hard for him and I
Must rub him down at once, but the front door creaks
And opens revealing a maiden with a widow’s peak
“Good evening, Sir, you will take tea with me?”
“Yes, but my horse–” “Will be well taken care of by old Harry.”
Harry appears at my side and takes the reins
I notice Ed has been scratched by the nettles, but he never complains
“He’s a thoroughbred of rare merit,” I declaim
A good rubdown, water, hot bran mash, will put him on his game
And Harry, for God’s sake, get the nettles out,”
I saw his dour doughy face flinch to a redoubt
Well, no manner, I have the mistress there
The lovely lady with the raven hair
She takes my leather-gloved hand in her small pale cool one
Smiles at me with ruby lips and says, “No, here we don’t get the sun
“But won’t you come in for a spot of tea?”
“I’d love to, of course, Miss, but who may I say is inviting me?”
She laughs.”I’m Arianna. And you?”
“Richard.” “Oh…The Lionhearted?” I laugh too.
She lay her cool hand on my arm.
“Well, come in and dine now, my friend”
I doff my top hat, hoping this is not the end
We enter that dark manse, I with growing dread
It is candlelit, furnished in red
She bids me sit at table and I do
She pours tea and hands me scones, cakes, sandwiches too
Then she sits, arranging her robes around her
I am startled by the low growl of some cur
“Don’t be afraid, it’s just Blackie, he won’t bite”
“Uhm… You set a nice table, Arianna, quite”
I glance at her and am startled to discover
How very beautiful she is, how suddenly I wish to unwrap her, to uncover
All that perfect porcelain white skin
I blush at the thought of my sin
She looks at me over the edge of her teacup with huge green eyes
Slanted like a cat’s, I think of stormy skies
Her jet-black hair is drawn back
So that it tumbles in curls down her back
“You notice my widow’s peak,” she says
“It was recently acquired, but the hair is mine. It is–”
She takes a sip of tea. “I’m from Wales ”
“Ah, I hear they make very good ales”
She laughs. “That they do, and more ”
I bite into a cake, hoping I am not a bore
“You’re not, Mr. Eh?”
“Robertson” I quickly say.
“Well I am Miss Lewis. Are you THE”
“Of Kensington House, yes,” I quickly say
Not wanting to mention my other holdings; not today
She smiles and dimples prettily and flutters dark lashes
I stare spellbound, I could crumble to ashes
Not noticing. I drink my tea as in a dream
To be continued…
tabbi2's Blog 