Summary: Shell Cottage is made of the days spent there, but what are the days made of?
Nominated for a 2013 QSQ.
Categories: Poetry Characters: None
Warnings: Character Death, Mild Profanity, Slash
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 836
Read: 1287
Published: 04/05/13
Updated: 04/06/13
Story Notes:
This was written for the amazing poet and PA laureate Julia/the opaleye during the first annual PA poetry exchange. :)
Pardon my French, and don't let the other warnings scare you--they're pretty mild, honestly.
1. and the days are by 1000timesingoldenink
and the days are by 1000timesingoldenink
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: There are six possible permutations of the letters J, K, and R, but none of them are my initials...although one of them comes pretty close.
The days are:
*
To eyes, a lonely cottage by a rocky cliff,
high above the churning white spray of the sea,
tall clumps of grass, a small flower garden,
black dragon-hide boots tracking sand onto a frayed doormat.
A crackling hearth flashing bright green--
occasional strands of hair clinging to slept-upon pillowcases:
not only fiery orange-red and shimmering blonde,
but earthen brown, pitch black, fading silver,
and an indecisive greenish-blue-magenta.
A boy snatching his big sister’s wand, prancing around
too close to the cliff--her lips part in a scream,
four pairs of legs streaking across the sand as he falls,
only to see a little figure silhouetted against the blue,
a bobbing dot in the ocean, splashing and grinning up at them,
still clutching the seaweed-covered wand.
A man stooping over a wind-worn white stone,
his wrinkled hand laying lilies over the etched lettering,
the vast blue sky watching, as it first did so long ago.
*
To a nose, the inviting smell of Christmas turkey,
a tall pine tree, a warm and smoky fireplace,
all ignored; he prefers the forlorn ocean air,
the crisp tang of waves breaking against the rocks,
as if her perfume could reach him from over the forlorn waters,
the distance he is desperate to cross.
The distance gone; a soothing hint of toothpaste,
driving away the stench of terror and exhaustion,
the salty odor of blood and perspiration
masked by the blessed spearmint aroma of his nearness.
Fresh air replacing the stale breath of a dungeon,
the yearned-for fragrance of April’s lovely blossoms:
the best natural remedy against Wrackspurts,
relished and cherished and danced to.
The wooly whiff of a sweater pulled over the head:
two old women, mother and daughter-in-law,
hands smelling of yarn and wooden knitting needles.
*
To ears, utter silence where noise should have been,
a doorstep that cannot creak in welcome
for a newly married man carrying in his wife,
their empty bedroom unnaturally quiet all night.
Hurried, worried footsteps, anxious conversations,
tapping a radio for want of familiar voices much as news,
then at last an audible sigh of relief, the air of fear exhaled.
A woman clutching her round belly, swearing, Ah! Merde!--
little angels wailing from diapers and colic,
the distant crash of waves a nightly lullaby,
the laughter and chatter of children at play,
a thousand arguments but a million I love yous.
The muffled sobs of a teenage girl huddled on her bed,
whimpering a plea to her contrary heart
as a swarm of cruel words echo in her head,
but in time, these echoes fade, for hate is hard to hear
over the young woman’s joyous exchange of vows
with her bride, and the cheers and toasts from two families
who love their daughters no less than always.
*
To a mouth, a bottle of wine uncorked and drunk
in shared jubilance for each child born--
the vineyard’s dry sweetness ever-present on the tongue.
Good French cooking, enjoyed by all--
grandmere and grandpere pleased by the traditional dishes,
rare steak, pink and juicy, just how he likes it,
a mother’s caprice and a child’s delight: an éclair for breakfast,
filled with creamy custard, topped with chocolate icing,
and oh--the endless teasing about those snails.
A merry picnic on a blanket in the sand;
a few gritty grains mixed into the sandwiches,
an ice cream cone, the best since Florean Fortescue,
delicious cold vanilla—but a salty aftertaste,
the brief but heartfelt tears of a toddler;
a cone dropped before the last few sugary licks are eaten.
The flavor of the cherry stains on the girl’s pretty teeth,
cherry as the color the boy’s hair is turning,
sitting and spitting out pits into the sea;
even a first cherry kiss, sweet as forbidden fruit,
here, when his gran and her parents aren’t looking.
*
To fingers, a knock at a bare wooden door,
locked by secrecy to protect the home-dwellers,
until at last the keys can be flung far into the sunrise.
The freedom to stretch, to reach, unconfined,
after an eternity of unyielding stone walls;
the kiss of warm sunlight on pale, sunken cheeks
grown accustomed to gloom and darkness,
and, best of all, the friendly feel of newly crafted wands.
A splintery shovel, blisters from digging dirt;
lifting a weightless body into a grave,
gently closing a friend’s eyelids for the last time--
but also clasping the perfect palm of a sweaty sleeping beauty,
tenderly stroking her bushy russet locks:
she is safe, she will yet awaken.
Rough scars on faces not yet touched by age,
a mauled man’s visage no longer fair,
but, too, the brush of a baby’s soft skin;
no generation can be marred beyond repair.
*
To a heart, everything at once:
both the surface of the water, calm and peaceful,
and the tides of emotion crashing and ebbing along the shore,
because the days are forever Shell Cottage--
the brilliant beams of the soul’s lighthouse.
End Notes:
Thoughts? Concrit? Donate a review to the white box!
Edit: This poem is among my submissions to the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Thanks to reviewers and crit-ers (critters?), and to Julia for providing such good prompts!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.