"Meandering"

meandering

woodland paths

through the mind

alive, with birdsong

sunlight, filtered through trees

slight breeze

her memories, eternal

her future, insecure

but what of the present

the moment

meandering, meandering

no certain direction

those feelings of rejection

so much introspection

not trusting - need for self-protection

yet, still - alive, with birdsong

walking the woodland paths

of her imagination

"My Cousin Rachel" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "My Cousin Rachel")

Orphaned as a small child -

raised by my elder cousin, Ambrose -

secure together, in our "house of men" -

Ambrose, my cousin -

yet, father, mother, brother -

Ambrose was all. My world.


They used to hang men at Four Turnings

in the old days.

Not any more, though.

I was seven, when

Ambrose showed me

the hanging body of a man.

The man's name was Tom Jenkyn.

He used to sell lobsters.

He murdered his wife,

and for his crime,

Tom Jenkyn hung.


Our damp Cornish winters

did not agree with Ambrose,

necessitating travel -

winters to be spent on the Continent.

And in Florence,

in his forties,

that what where, and when, he met

the Countess Sangalletti -

My Cousin Rachel.

She apparently shared his love of gardening.

Then came the letter,

announcing that

Ambrose and My Cousin Rachel

were married.

I had not know such jealousy -

such intense jealousy - before.


And so few letters.

And when they came...


And that journey to Florence -

and the churches -

and the haunting face

of a beggar woman.


The sudden shock -

the news of

Ambrose's death.


And the villa -

and the fountain -

boy holding a shell -

the laburnun trees -

the unreality of that foreign land.


And, back at home, the hatred

that grew -

of a Rachel

who never existed -

and the love

for a Rachel

who - did that one exist?


Sunday lunches

with the Kendalls and Pascoes -

and My Cousin Rachel.

Especially, that first one.

Especially, the last.


And Rainaldi - hated by Ambrose,

hated by me.

Regarded by My Cousin Rachel as

friend, confidante -

maybe lover, as well?


And the pearls -

around Rachel's white neck -

and a wedding -

my marriage to Rachel -

a wedding

that never took place.


And my own illness.

And - was Rachel innocent?

Was Rachel guilty?


An evening walk

in the terraced garden.

A warning, not heeded.


The image of a granite slab -

a pocket book -

letter from Ambrose - buried,

along with the pocket book.


They used to hang men at Four Turnings

in the old days.

Not any more, though.

"Free Spirit"

My spirit is free.

Only body, and circumstances,

won't let me be.

"Depression Does Not Care"

My depression does not care

whether it is sunny

outside.

"Temptation" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "My Cousin Rachel")

My Cousin Rachel. My cousin. Rachel.

My first, last and only.

My temptation. My torment.

Our temptation. Our torment.

"More Intense"

sunlight

only

makes the darkness

more intense

when you're

the ones who live

in the shadows

of a world

that never will

make sense

"Deflated"

My parents should have had an inflatable daughter -

not me -

inflatable, with a few automaton qualities, maybe -

so that she could have been programmed to make

certain appropriate noises,

at certain appropriate moments.

They could have stored her, flat-packed,

in a cupboard, when she wasn't needed.


And my friends could have had

an inflatable friend,

who would be there as long as they wanted her,

but wouldn't protest, or feel hurt, or be "awkward",

when they let her down.