(From our "Quarterly
"The White Lady of
Deborah Susan Jones : Writer
An ancient Myth & Legend . . . .
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
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.