"The White Lady of Longnor"

The White Lady of Longnor had emerged from the depths of the fathomless, weed-ridden pool.
She bided awhile beside the drear waters, rose and extended a foot.
Step by slow step she walked t’wards the house, standing stately, imposing, forbidding and of which she would never, never, never have been mistress.
Beeswax candles lay upon the pealing sash window sills, their candle sticks fallen down upon the filthy tiled floor.
Lit, their flame would surely have given the room a low-key aura.
A cuckoo called from the wood.
No more tears could she shed, her eyes long since rubbed dry.
No more sighs, no more thoughts in her head, save one.
To revisit the place where she had finally understood that her desire for a love reciprocated had been spurned, trodden into the soft, shifting quicksand.
She drifted through the echoing rooms, dusty, worm eaten, rotten.
Reaching the whilom magnificent withdrawing room, she knelt down in the sheltered, cloistral inglenook.
Here she could dream dreams of what if, and maybe, unrealisable Utopias....
Deborah Susan Jones, Writer.

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