He drew in some air
Lifted the horn to his lips
The music played out
Like an innocent soul
Playing against the night sky.
Notes drifting on the breeze
Over rooftops and into open windows
Accompanying young lovers, and
Soothing the restless minds,
Of those lacking in sleep
A tear to the eye of some,
As the music sparks a memory
Bringing comfort to the lonely.
Stood in the corner gathering dust
Steel strings
Pitted with rust
Loose and untuned
Waiting to be held
Arms wrapped around
Waiting for the caress of fingers
For passion to make it dance again
To feel fingers press and glide
To make this old instrument young again.
A love song to play
The player to sway
A lover long lost
Never forgotten
To bring to life
A song once sung
Robert Green
On the flimsiest of paper
I write from my heart
As a gun shot pieces the air
We met only briefly
But we each knew our heart
A wounded soldier cries
Our dreams for the future
Briefly built in our hearts
My companion alongside sighs then dies
The world is on fire
Like the passion of two hearts
The canon flash lights up the night
If these lines ever reach you
Then it’s the last beat of my heart
The quietening of a drum
You lightened my life, if only briefly
But now a bullet has separated our hearts
I slip into a long sleep
I feel the warmth of your kiss
The beat of your heart
Time to move on now with just one heart.
“Ah love! Could thou and I with fate conspire to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire! Would not we shatter it to bits – and then re-mould it nearer to the hearts desire!”
Omar Khayyam
1945.
He put down his pen for a moment to reflect on what he had written. The August rain had stopped, but a drip from the overhead corrugated sheet landed on the scrap of paper he had been writing, with great care he used the cuff of his uniform to blot it, but still left the word slightly blurred.
He knew she was the one for him, even before he left her at the quayside, that last kiss only emphases the fact. He held her for the longest of times.
Picking up his pen, a smile playing across his mouth he wrote ‘ I love you now, I’ll love you on my return, I’ll love you forever. ‘
Looking down as he slipped his pen into his top pocket, a red rose bloomed and spread over his uniform, his fist gripping the letter tightly. Slumping forward still smiling, as if asleep.
2013
Her fingers were a blur, skipping across the key board, almost as fast as her heart was beating. She had to let him know how she felt.
This was nothing like she had ever felt before, she knew as soon as she seen his profile, gazed lovingly at his photograph, he is the one for me.
‘ I know we have only messaged a few times but I feel you feel the same as me, and that I am in love with you.
I would like to meet up with you soon,
I have read your words so many times I feel we are soul mates, and therefore you are the one for me’.
She hit the send button with a smile, as she sat back in the chair, pleased to find the courage to say what was on her mind. As she went to close down the site a private message appeared. With shaking fingers, she opened the message – auto reply ‘ thank you for leaving a message, My status will be updated on my return to ‘Engaged’ I appreciate your message’
In response to WordPress Daily Post challenge
Extract from ‘ The Skeleton In Amour ‘
” Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward. ”
” There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a Mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun arise
On such another!”
” Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours,a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”– that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
John Keats: Ode on a Grecian Urn
With apologies to Keats as this is an Italian urn, overlooking Lake Como. Still beautiful, still true…
