Prisoner of Love
by Jennifer Walmsley
Like a Shearwater on land, I struggle to my feet following a full moon’s path that leads me up from the beach, away from the stench of a rotting sheep’s carcass, towards a sand-coloured mansion absorbing moonlight like a beacon.
I imagine I can see the Maiden’s face blurred by mullion. She’s looking out and I feel her love and her despair mirroring my own. I cry with her as her life, long ago, disintegrated into despair that reflects my own. A sea breeze, sudden and chill, shakes apples from an ageing bough. Windfalls thud to the ground where her feet once trod. The shadow of an abandoned scarecrow leans, creaking like the bones of a Jesuit priest concealed in a priest hole within that ancient building where her ghost now looks down upon me.
The scarecrow’s arm lifts as if pointing towards the distant road. ‘Run,’ I think I can hear his raspy voice saying. ‘Forget him.’
I ponder upon those two tragic lovers. Tom, a harpist of lowly trade, who had no hope in gaining the hand of the daughter of gentry. Handsome he might’ve been. Creative he certainly was when he wrote a ballad declaring his love; a song that is still sung when minds are clouded with beer.
What has my own love done to deserve such devotion? I muse upon that question and find no answers. What cruelty has he committed to persuade me that I must forge ahead without him? There are too many reasons. I don’t need to tick them off on cold fingers. I need to feel numb. I want to curl into a ball and burrow deep beneath purple heather.
Shall I shut myself away inside my own home that smells of his scent and disdain? Shall I gaze out like the Maid, each day and night, waiting for my love’s return? ‘Forget him,’ the scarecrow rasps, his arm still pointing towards that road hidden behind sand dunes.
I reach out, catch hold of a gull’s white feather spinning to earth. Or is it a feather shed from a guardian angel’s wing? I hold it to my nose and feel its tickle. Smell the aroma of sea water. The wind rises and the scarecrow sways, creaking. I walk away, heading for the road and pray that soon I can return to the person I once was. Start all over again without him.
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Biog: Born, brought up and still living in Wales, I've had stories published in women's magazines. After discovering flash ficiton on a writer's forum and through their encouragement, I've since been published on web zines. Now trying my hand at poetry.
