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Castle

Canter to a halt, quiet
Still air laden; the leaves they whisper
Of martyrs and legends;

Blood once spilled where
Poppies grow, and silence that
Falls ’round the castell old;

Take me to the maiden, bound
To the dark night; take me in place
Of purity and light.

(Photo location: Eilean Donan, Scotland)

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The Bachata – Part One

Something I promised a friend; part one first while the rest writes itself, in due time. 😉

Dimly lit and cosy, the interior of the bar contrasted sharply with the summer sidewalks and idyllic outdoors.

She made her way casually, yet not undeliberately down the hallway. The men glanced up and stared; they always do. But she was not distracted.

And there he was.

Tailored blue jacket thrown over white linen shirt and fitted blue jeans, accompanied by the usual glass of red and an air of relaxed elegance, at the far table beside the curtained windows.

She turned and walked in his direction, a slight smile turning up the corners of her mouth as he looked up that instance and saw her. He smiled, then got up as she arrived at the table.

“It’s been a while.”

“Indeed; how have you been?”

“Well, life goes on.”

“Like a bachata.”

“Yes, we dance – sad words to beautiful melodies – and that makes life more bearable.”

A smile in his eyes, and she could not help smiling back. Linking her arm in his, they walked down together to the dance floor.

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