The Lost Soliloquy
Beside a candle late at night,my glasses on, when all was quiet,
with candles as my reading light.
After all day staring at the sea,
(in a dream or so it seems)
I’d brought a quiet book with me.
I then heard faint upon my door:
three soft knocks and then no more.
My book I sat beside the table—
on a wooden lamp stand less-than-stable,
and walked as fast as I was able
to the wooden door across the floor.
A waving candle in my hand trembled on it’s candle-stand.
Looking into the darkness, to implore,
I stood:
staring at the blue-tinged moon-bathed wood.
Nothing there but trees, but quiet,
just twisted elms with shrubs beside it—
with each shadow of its form behind it.
I heard a young girl laugh and stepped in the grass.
The shadow puppets on the wall, lively danced, and stood there tall.
Then I saw a young girl’s dress
drift into the wilderness.
A dress of blue, such delicate lace
by trees which blew, obscured her face.
I followed her and then she turned,
her eyes to mine—
and desperate yearned.
Behind me came a whisper,
and in quietness soften said:
“What’s it like to meet the dead?”
Into the woods I turned and ran,
kicking loose the midnight sands,
childish laughter all about:
“Hello?” I said, and tried to shout:
No sound but the rustling leaves,
into the woods I followed at full speed.
I heard an owl’s call up ahead,
And sleepy turned the owl and said—
like a jester from a palace read.
Through the darkness I peered through,
and saw a subtle hint of blue.
And strange it was that night, to see,
a lonely owl look down at me.
“What is it like to meet the dead?”
“Who?” said the owl, and cocked his head.
In the ground not far away
I saw the curtail of the blue dress sway—
then her brown eyes clear as day,
She held a mirror on the ground,
and she passed through without a sound.
I went through too and thought I knew;
as I washed ashore.
Then the words came, like before,
a small girl in the darkness said:
“I know just what it is to be among forgotten dead.”
There was a trap-door in the woods,
we disappeared and there we stood;
fireflies drifted their brief light,
glistened in the dark of night,
like a star reflecting bright.
Across the stream blew flower seeds
and rain fell down like silver beads.
The midnight water settled, still,
and the child sat on the hill.
“What is it like—to be another—
of the silent dead?”
I less than murmured,
turned my head,
thinking of what she once soft said.
She wistful leaned,
then wistful whispered,
as fireflies above us glittered.
“It is to lie, alone and still,
it is but to look at night above,
just like the silent water does.”
Before me on the calm night sea,
the moon shone bright on Galilee,
the waves come in, the birds that glide,
above the Sea—that silent tide
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