I dreamt last night that you were with me
and we walked along that path leading to the river and the ferry across.
(do you remember the ferry?)

It was summer, or so it seemed,
and the air was heavy & hot.
The sky was blue, cloudless, except for distant flecks of white.
Insects and small birds shared the air
— I’m sure I saw a dragonfly, iridescent blue/green
hovering over a flowering thistle

The path we walked was as I remembered it;
narrow and hedged on each side
by waist high wild plants & flowers - blue and white, some blood red,
green, alive, hosting many flying fauna that buzzed and flitted
from bloom to bloom.

But interspersed among the verdant growths were
angry-thorned wild roses, nettles
and the dark brown and black of dying flora.

I wanted to hold your hand but the nettles and harsh-thorned plants
grabbed at our clothes and gashed bare skin.
So we plodded single-file, not talking;
I knew you were behind me but had to keep turning round to be sure.

It felt as though we had been walking for an eternity
until rounding a bend in the path,
we saw the river in the near distance.
Blue-green-still, dappled by sunlight,
its surface broken by occasional movements
from creatures beneath.

As we drew close the to river’s edge and the grey wooden jetty,
I noticed the buzzing insects and flying birds had ceased their aerobatics;
there was silence, not even the gentle lapping of water against the riverbank.

Looking across to that distant bank it seemed blurred and indistinct;
an eerie mist hovered at that far shore.

There was a brass bell atop a post standing at the back of the jetty,
aged and stained.

You came to my side and took my hand but spoke no words.

I reached out to ring the bell but you squeezed my hand.
I looked to you and your eyes were fearful.
Shaking your head, you mouthed ‘No!’

I nonetheless reached up and grabbed the cord tied to the striker
and rang the bell.
Three times I did this.
But not a sound was made.

The silence was heavy now & looking skyward I realised dusk had crept upon us.

I looked out at the river and the mist that moments before
had been at the distant shore was now edging towards us.

The air chilled suddenly and in the silence
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.

Your hand still clasped mine; it was clammy, cold.

I looked at you but your eyes were drawn to that distant river’s edge
And the mist that crept towards us.

I strained too to see into the approaching brume and saw a yellow light
in the now black, starless darkness around us.
It appeared to be hanging in the air.

Moments later, a small boat loomed from the mist,
the light bobbing on a spar at its prow.
And the ferryman, thrusting his pole into the green-dark depths of the river,
tall, thin, indistinct in the half light.

Silently the boat came to rest at the end of the jetty.
The ferryman caught my eye: I do not recall his face,
it was as though it was devoid of features.

He raised an arm and gestured towards us.
You pulled your hand from mine.
I looked at you but your eyes were locked on the ferryman.

He gestured again and you turned to me, smiled, and walked onto the jetty.
I wanted to reach out to you but I was frozen, paralysed.
I tried to speak but could not form any words.

In a few steps you were at the end of the jetty and stepped onto the boat;
it didn’t rock, almost as though you were as weightless as the mist around it.

I tried to call out to you but again no words came out.
You turned to me then.
Your eyes were sad.
You touched your hand to your heart then turned away.

The boat began to move away, back into the brume
and was soon lost to the night  …

He spoke a truth; I ate the lie.
He gave me his word; I gagged on the hollow promise.
He touched me; my skin crawled.
He kissed me; his breath was foul.
He spat his sins in my face; I absorbed them, bore them.
He held me; my heart stuttered
He looked at me; his eyes were empty.
He loosed his hold; I moved to him.
I grasped his hand; it was clammy, chilled.
He pulled away; I tightened my grip.
He begged for release; I ignored his pleas.
He whispered, “Why?”; I would not hear.
I struck him down; he was still.
I mouthed “Amen”, then turned away.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t understand the question.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t know what you mean.

‘Who are you?’

Why do you keep asking that?

‘Who are you?’

Please stop asking me.

‘Who are you?’

I am just me.

‘Who are you?’

I told you, just me.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t know!

‘Who are you?’

I am no-one.

‘Who are you?’

I am nothing.

‘Who are you?’

I am dead.

‘Who are you?’

I told you, I am dead.

‘Who are you?’

I am an echo.

‘Who are you?’

I am you. I am your echo. I am your shadow. I am your yin & yang. I am your id. I am your ego. I am your psyche. I am your reflection.  

‘Who are you?’

'I am your soul.’

© DS 7/2016

Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.

Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’

She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?

Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.

‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’

She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.

The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...

© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)

I
Panic flits swiftly
as the cat's stealthy claw strikes;
a sparrow lies dead.

II
Shards of rain shatter
the oppressive summer sky.
As the rainclouds burst.

III
This is my death time.
I regret my life's errors
but it is too late.

A time for living
and a time for dying too;
how pointless it seems.

In that dark time
coldest before dawn
did you come to me;
Night’s Whisper.

You are as frail as falling leaves
or the whisper of a summer breeze.
Your alabaster skin,
eyes like a starless night,
lips blood red.
And your breath so sweet.

You folded those diaphanous wings
to your perfect frame.
You reached out to me
and I knew it was right
and enfolded you in my embrace.

I felt your heart race, or was it mine
as our lips touched in the lightest of caresses?
I was the artist painting that final gentle stroke.

Ours was a passion that could never be contained
and my dread at the thought of losing you forced my hand;
please forgive me for my terrible deed.

You were too delicate, too perfect to wear those harsh cold shackles
so I bound you with these spider’s silks.

I will never forget the terror I saw in your eyes
at once pleading, questioning, uncomprehending,
now dull and resigned, downcast and melancholy.

I have created this prison for you my love
and share it with you every moment of the day
and the long dark nights.

And so have you been these long years;
my prize that I can no longer take joy in,
my perfect love I can no longer bring myself to hold.

What a strange place this is, hovering between the perpetual dark and the grey light of dawn. It was nowhere you would find on any map. It was said to exist only in the psyche, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness. But  I found it and, should these words ever be read, you will know that I am there still …

Tall ramparts of the dullest stone rise up skyward. Sightless windows stare out across a strange landscape: it is not possible to make out any landmark for the mists twine in psychotic patterns making the tangible invisible to the eye.

I came to this place … I don’t how I got to be here. As I write down these words, I try to recall my journey but my memories are as fogged as the barren mist-infused heath below me. It is as though I have been here for a lifetime, maybe more. I seem to have a sense of having been somewhere other than this place but it is impossible to draw a coherent recollection from my mind.

It is cold here in my room high in the turret of this place. The cold stone arch that is my only eye to this outside world is presently covered with a ragged curtain. There are faded colours discernible on it; age has dulled them. It ***** forlornly in the insignificant breeze that blows through the window. It is dark outside the window. I know it must be as the tears in the drape are showing no light coming through.

On my writing table is a candle that is burning with a yellow flame. It sputters as the breeze catches it unawares. My candle casts a little light; enough to write with. I look down at the yellowed paper and my words you have just been reading. In my hand is my pen. How old-fashioned; a feathered quill. At the top of the table is a small *** and the trail of ink suggest this is my ink-***. Strange. It seems perfectly natural and familiar to be writing these words in this archaic fashion yet oddly out of place also as though a thread of a memory is tugging somewhere in my brain telling me it cannot be real. My hand reaches out to rub the surface of the table. It is rough, hewn not by a skilled artisan but functional. A shiver courses through me and I draw my rough cloak closer about me …

I don’t know if I had slept but becoming aware of my surroundings, I can see a little greyness coming through the drape over my window. It is not daylight in the sense you would know it; it is never daylight here. The candle is no more than a stub now and it’s flame is gasping it’s last breath. My surroundings are eerily visible now in this dull light. I can see the door across to my right. It is old and heavy with a large handle and studded panels. I expect to see a bed but craning my neck all I can see is a rough straw pallet in the opposite corner. That part of the room is still hidden in shadow so I am surmising that the rumpled pallet and rough blanket heaped against the wall is where I sleep. But I do not remember sleeping.

My pen is laid down next to the sheaves of manuscript I had clearly been working on. All this time, whether sleeping or writing, I had not considered whether I was alone here in my room. There was nothing in that moment I considered it to suggest I was here in anything but solitary isolation. Yet something made me look again at the rumpled bed in that dark corner. I realised then with a start that what I had assumed to be just my bedding had a clear form. Straining my eyes against the grey shadow, I saw an imperceptible movement. I held my breath, unsure if my eyes were deceiving me in this half light. I pushed against the table to lift myself as quietly as I could from my chair and padded over to the bed in the corner.

Crouched against the wall was the form of a woman. Her breathing almost imperceptible, coming in short, tremulous whispers. Clearly she was sleeping but something told me it was not a comfortable sleep but rather a sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion. Her pose was unnatural; half lying, half crouching. Her hands were clasped against her chest and rose and fell with each breath. I staggered backward my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the sound of her breathing.

Turning to the table, my trembling hand reached for the candle and, cupping my hand to protect the dying light, I crept back to her. In the faint yellow cast of the flame I could see her more clearly. A once silvery gown now grey and tattered covered her small frame. There was a rough blanket draped carelessly across her shoulders. Her elfin face was as pale and dull as the grey light and threads of golden hair hung across her face. I found myself reaching out to her only to brush a strand from across her eyes. In that moment her eyes flew open and stared wild and frightened. Immediately she cowered back against the wall whimpering like a cornered animal. The shock of her awakening startled me and I fell back from my crouched position. Her hands flew up to protect her perfect face and to my horror, I saw they were bound at the wrist. Who was she? Why in all the gods’ names was she here, my apparent prisoner?

I recovered my senses and as gently as I could I approached her again. The blanket had fallen from her shoulders and in the still guttering candle flame I saw what I could only guess were silver feathers seemingly growing from her shoulders. This was impossible. The light was playing with my senses surely?

Reaching out to her I ever so gently touched her clasped hands now held against her face as though in prayer. She let my take them in mine – so delicate, so perfect, so cold to the touch – and my fingers slid down to her bound wrists. The binding was a dull silver, so flimsy yet seemingly strong enough to hold her hands together. There were welts where the bindings had dug into the flesh. And now she stared unblinkingly at me, sheer terror in her eyes.

I let her hands go with more force than I intended and recoiled from this scene, my whole frame trembling, my skin crawling with cold dread. Had I done this? I cannot remember. If I had, why? I closed my eyes willing it to be no more than a nightdread. Opening them seconds later I realised what I knew; that this was real, as real as anything could be in this strange world I found myself in.

I knew then what I must do and turning to my table I looked frantically amongst the sheaves and found the blade I had been using to pare my quills. Grasping it I returned to the pallet and approached her, blade in one hand, sputtering flame in the other. She gasped in horror as I drew close to her. How stupid of me. The poor creature was terrified of me, terrified by the cruelties I must have inflicted upon her.

“Hush, I mean you no harm.” My words seemed to belong to someone else. I placed the candle on the floor and reached out for her hands again. Pulling them toward me, I told her I was going to remove her bonds. She seemed to understand and, though still staring wildly like a frightened child, she let me insert the blade under her bindings. I could only imagine she had trusted me once and was now prepared to do so again. With a deft flick, the bindings parted to the blade and slithered to the floor. She turned her eyes from me for the first time to inspect her wrists massaging them lightly. She looked up at me once more and though she spoke no words, her eyes framed the question, “Why now? Why now after so long?”

I stood up and backed away from her and gestured toward the door: “It is time, that’s all, time for you to go.”

Rising uncertainly from her rude bed, this angel, for that is surely what she was, stood before me trembling. I removed the cloak from my shoulders and placed it about hers, my fingers lightly brushing the feathers on her shoulder blades. I gestured toward the door once again saying as I did so: “Walk toward it; I shan’t stop you. There is no lock; it will freely let you pass. I will not follow.”

The poor creature turned from me and walked to the door. Grasping the handle, it opened with a groan. She passed through and was gone …

In a stupor, I went toward the window and pulled the drape to one side. The sky was still grey but now a silver moon hung in my vision. I sensed a movement to my left and saw my angel soar across the face of the moon and into the gloom.

I walked back to my table and sat heavily down. Grasping my quill and dipping it into the inkpot, I reached for another sheet of parchment and continued to write in the hope that you will find these words and tell my story …