Blake portrait by Thomas Phillips English poet, painter, and printmaker William Blake was born, November 28, 1757 at 28 Broad Street (now Broadwick St.) in Soho, London ❦ Largely unrecognised during his lifetime, Blake is now considered a seminal figure in the history of the poetry and visual arts of the Romantic Age. What he […]William Blake [1757-1827] — Marina Kanavaki
The woman in the florists was adamant: There was not even one male member of staff, let alone anyone matching Elena’s description of the young man she thought had served her.
“Back to square one, Dear,” Mary whispered as they exited the florists into the cold drizzle.
“Maybe I dreamed of meeting him here, too,” Elena said, opening her umbrella.
Mary tugged at her arm. “Stick to your guns, you saw what you saw. I believe you.”
“You are probably the only one who would.”
That night Elena didn’t feel much like talking to Michael. Complaining of a headache, she went to bed early and started to read. Unexpectedly, she found herself nodding off within only a few minutes.
She became aware of standing on grass in warm sunlight. It looked like a park of some kind. There was a copse of ash trees on a nearby hillock in full leaf, partly obscuring the sun. What sounded like a flock of geese was squawking away, somewhere nearby, but as yet unseen. It might have been a summer’s evening, it felt too warm to be morning. She was standing by a few large oak trees, and could reach out and touch the bark of the nearest one. Some of it flaked off between her fingers. This time her dress was a dark blue with the widest cuffs she’d ever seen. Looking down, Elena could also see she was wearing a very fine necklace, maybe diamonds and pearls. She touched them, rolling a few between her fingers. They looked and felt real.
Then she spotted something carved into the bark of the nearest oak. A heart and two initials, PH. It had only just registered in her mind what she was looking at, when he stepped out from behind the bole of the tree. She had almost been expecting him. He had that telling little smirk on his face, like some mischievous boy might have. But this boy was definitely a man. He reached forward, pulling her towards him, kissing her gently.
“Elena, you feed me,” he said. This time it was coming from his lips.
“What do you mean? Are you hungry?”
“Elena, you feed me!” His hands clutched his heart in a dramatic stance. He smiled, broadly for the first time and bowed gracefully towards her like some actor.
“I’m glad, I think. But who are you?”
He took her hand and they began to saunter through the grass. It was quite long, there were red splashes of poppies strewn ahead of them, amid the gentle summer fragrances wafting all around. She figured it was around early July. Soon they reached the ash copse and began to follow the path around it. In all this time, they said nothing.
As they cleared the corner of the copse, a large country house came into view at the bottom of a hill. It nearly took her breath away, the mellow golden stone shining in the lowering sun, its tall chimneys as high as steeples. She knew it wasn’t his own house, it was a friend’s, though what they were doing there was anyone’s guess.
He led her down the hill towards the house. There was no one else about, only a few deer and some cows. When they got to the walls she touched them. It all seemed like recent work, newly built.
They entered what appeared to be a courtyard with a tree at the centre, some shade. She sat down as best she could on the wooden seat, the dress was hard to brush underneath. Where had he gone? She became aware of a light high up, it wasn’t the sun. It began to spin round and round.
Elena was sitting on the toilet.
“Elena? Are you ok?” Michael tapped on the partly open door.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why were you walking about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I woke up and heard you pacing along the landing and then into the small bedroom.”
“What? I’m… are you sure?”
“Were you sleepwalking?”
“I don’t know, maybe I was.”
“Ok, well, are you coming back to bed?”
She stood up, looking at her tired face in the mirror, the dark blue nightdress she was wearing.
copyright Milly Reynolds 2020, also on amazon.co.uk
Full of April promise
so many times we’d disappear
to where the canal boats moored
make-believing one of them ours
a gypsy craft laden for a simpler life
We’d found our own place to dream
saw the naked sun step down to play
to dance on daisy-strewn fields
leaving us to lay by a twisting stream
cradled by heavy blossom trees
unable to face an unpalatable truth
The holes it burned in our maudlin minds
like never-healing wounds
more vulnerable than the blossom
which fell into torrents below
So it is that a few fine April days
are quickly gone
They never presage a fine summer to come
© copyright David Francis Barker 2011
Unseasonal, I know, but those of us entrenched in the northern hemisphere might want to think of spring.
A picture of you
you cupping daffodils in sacred space
this picture of you framed in sacred space
yes I’m dreaming of spring, of light, of warmth!
a new life together, our sacred space
we’ve returned like birds in hope of new life
preparing for love in lush sacred space
what peace there may be, let’s find it again
near where the lilies grow, their sacred space
here, walking free, he whispers words of love
so we join him to share his sacred space
© copyright David Francis Barker 2011
*This has been work in progress for many months, but like all poetry I now abandon it, at least in this form.
Whether it can still be called a ghazal, I’m not sure. The last verse originally had a full reference to me, but I changed it to the third person and left it as the phrase ‘walking free’, which is a weak link to Francis, my middle name, which could mean ‘free man’, or perhaps, ‘little Frenchman’! Anyway, the original idea was to imagine Saint Francis in a garden with the birds but I guess it has morphed now into a romantic wish with hints of Francis walking somewhere in a beautiful garden, which might well be a nice place to be.
The painting (or a part of it) is my take, an impression if you will, of Monet and his water lilies, mixed media on canvas.
There is a new book out by Milly Reynolds. I helped design the cover for kindle.
This is a bit of a departure for Milly, who has hitherto developed the character of Mike Malone, the quirky English detective with an odd past, who struggles to come to terms with life in rural Lincolnshire – a far more dangerous place than he envisaged!
‘The Unseen Sky’ is a longer, more romantic and historical work. The main character is a melancholic painter who accepts an invitation to visit his friend and agent in Venice. While there he meets his agent’s daughter Maria for the first time in two years, who has become a beautiful young woman. Then issues from the past which he had tried to forget, begin to re-emerge; the mystery of a friend’s disappearance, the intrigue of Maria’s family history, all interweaving through scenes of romantic Venetian canals and the windswept but gorgeous North Norfolk coast. A lovely read.