Writing Alone.

 "It would be such a sad tale, if you were to start the story with the quiet word that is 'lonely'", he said rather plainly, but still each word was sung with that accent of his.
 "But I see no other way to begin it, I know only of loneliness".
"No, you see you are wrong, you know only of writing of loneliness", sung he, taking a stride to the window, and glaring toward the fields through the panes. "Let me warn you of loneliness, and writing of loneliness. It will consume you, it will devour your sleep and it will shiver your delicate skin. It will line your hair in silver and it will bring lines to your hands. Good writing will always consume you, and you know it too well for it not to be written as perfection".
"But in that way", replied I, "You make me out to be some one who has never experienced friendship, let alone love or cherishing".
"My dear, you haven't".
"And if it is so, why won't you allow me to write, to live this way and produce something from my predicament?", I eyed him momentarily, but my point was over before it began.
"Oh  but you have me wrong, I truly wish that you write and only write, but if I were to encourage you in any way your loneliness would be abolished, and useless, tinged in happiness. And I will have none of that. You must be a successful writer and earn yourself a name in print for after you die."
"Oh you are ever right. But tell me, is there a beautiful day at my window? Have I not sun to hinder my accomplishments or is it the grey water that lashes at my window pane?".
"You should write that down", sung he, "And ignore this plain weather as best you can".
 After that I wrote for quite a time, changing quills only thrice and whilst lingering on one paragraph for a few minutes spoke briefly of sadness before returning to my work.
He sung nothing more until I, myself, stepped to the window.
"So is it a lonely life, that which we live?", his eyes rolled just as the hills that were reflected within them. He touched at the pane of glass before him, and turned back to his companion.
"It is", said I, my voice trailing off and barely touching at the bare wooden walls, barely wrapping itself around the ornate candle holders and not even baring a reflection of breath upon the piano.
I looked to the window where my hand led on the glass, creating a small print of mist.
 I waited upon an answer for what must have been an hour, but the melodic voice did not return. And it was only when my piece was read, that he ever spoke again. And he did not continue from then. His words remained eternal upon the page, and my voice always was the only voice within my manor.

Needed.

"It is not an alarming tale", said she,
Leaning quite still against the door,
"And I can't say I'd ever met some one like he",
And with that she stood saying no more.

But it was seen in her posture,
Her fondness of romantic tales known,
And it had certainly come to cost her,
Letting that voice speak to her before she was grown.

It had first started late, deep into the night,
Simple small ramblings, such whispers to youth unheard.
But when she came to listen, it never brought fright,
And she mentioned to her Mother, that it was the friend she'd preferred.

Of course when it spoke by silk, by the candle light,
It was all quite agreeable, it's tone quite right.
Her laughter was heard one rainy night,
By a concerned neighbour who had otherwise thought her polite.

 Let's not agree that the girl had been mental,
For had you of known her you'd never have supposed,
That such a girl had menial conversations with the spectral
And could ever have been any thing other than decently composed.
 
"I suppose you could meet him", she said one day to I,
I was pleasantly surprised and agreed right away,
His voice entered swiftly, just as he in mind's eye.
And a day has not passed, that he has not come to play.

An Evening With Ivy.

She looked at me with all the innocence of an old woman baking.
“It’s just that, in our time, more enchanting things happen”.
She put down the potato in her hand, and took up another, peeling onward. I simply sat, basking in the warmth of the fire, the cosiness of the brickwork and the linings of ivy that she had strung up about the place.
“You aren’t following are you?”, she asked gently.
“Well… No”, I answered tastefully.
She smiled, ever looking toward the peeling she was busying herself with. She had peeled an awful lot of potatoes.
“Is there any one else here?”, I ventured.
“No, but there will be”.
“Do they always dress this way?” I asked, pulling at my lapel softly, and fidgeting in my chair.
“Most of the time, yes”, she answered, just as simply as any other way in which she spoke.
“And… and you will stay young?”.
She glanced up at me momentarily, returned her eyes to the potato and said, “Well yes, I suppose I will”.
There was quiet, and the feel that winter was barricading the front door, such a small front door it was. Heavy as it was. Outside the brown cobbles gave away the era, the low gaslights gave the hum of poverty about this street, and I turned my eyes back from the small windows to the little lady sat before me.
 Her skin so pale and smooth, it was English skin, the sort that only sees rain. Her hands looked worked and yet youthful, her lips the delicate darkening pink that experience gives them upon a woman.
She clocked my gazing upon her, and paused her peeling momentarily to run an awkward hand through her raven hair, tucking it back into place under her bonnet.
“Why are you still asking me questions?”, she asked.
“I suppose, because I am trapped here”.
“You may leave whenever you please”, she said with English arrogance.
“It’s a lovely little place you have here”, I said, leaning back onto the oak table.
“Yes, quite. Saved most of this furniture from the tip. Found it”.
“Quite a find”, I said, gliding a gentle hand across the table top, with care not to knock the arrangement of flowers that she had led upon a silver plate.


This may be continued, it may remain. I'm quite fond of it.