By PJ Flip, Poet Laureate of the IsleTwas in the season of great and noble tidings, when man and beast are in harmony with the will of the warmest stirrings of the heart of man, when I set out upon my carriage, perchance to spy a lady. I had long been pining whilst working through my studies in the rectory, and I thought it would be quite a thing to break my long stretch of erstwhile solitude by setting out henceforth in search of a young beauty to whisper sweet promises to as the water chortled by across the whispering stones of a secluded brook.
Ah, and as I struck out across the moors, reigning in my team as the wheels on my carriage went snicker-snack, I thought back to olden times, before the mosses undertook the bottom of the village bridge, before so many festive Christmastimes had gone by, before I had laid bear my heart to the frigid Widow Terwillinger, and tasted the mournful kiss of her disdain. How I wished to go back to my younger days, racing through the fens and braes in my short pants, my freckled cheeks rosy with good health and good cheer, skipping merrily along the cobblestones of old Solihul.
Ah, but the gray skies assailed me as I rode on, the angels in heaven had taken it upon themselves to chill me with a most unpleasant wind, As if the great clock of the seasons had turned back its hands and placed me in the most threadbare confines of a great December empire. I could cry for the warm embrace of Gaea and her merciful tidings, but t’would be in vain.
Then, did seem the heavens themselves opened up, casting down a ray from the very cheek of the Almighty to a distant hillside, where I saw a white figure elapsing the afternoon with incantations and revelry, unawares, perhaps, that I had seen her from afar. I called my stallions to a halt, wanting to thrill her with surprisement, and embarked briskly for the underside of the distant mount, which rose from the mists of the great plain like the shoulder of a half-buried giant, stirring himself to his waking.
I came to her in the bones of the great church, large moss-clad stone arches, the rusted remnants of an old friar’s crucifix. And there she turned to me, lips pursed, hair a deep chestnut brown, eyes brown and filled with a sense of longing that shook me to the very core of my being. I gazed upon her, her finery, her chaste maiden’s way of sitting, pail hands clasped in her lap, eyes glistening with timidness and the excitement of such indecent, reckless abandon to be alone in the wild with an wanton vagabond, to find herself looking back to me, bosom heaving, as I held out my hands to her, poetry springing to my lips. I had but one thing I could say to the maid, one phrase grafted by the anvils in Heaven, cast down by angels themselves to let me win her heart, her body, her very soul. I opened my lips, falling to one knee, and let my inner being spring forth, to conquer her, and make one angel my very own. She gazed at me breathlessly. I spoke in the tender stillness of the coming night…
"Hi."
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