'Twas balmy weather on the fool's gold path, the track that fashioned foes of friends. Though storms upon it lost their identity, how they did rage on all the same. "Twas a tyranny of the heart, dear lassie, that way that was no way at all. "Twas an extinguishing of the soul's hearth, dear laddie, and upon it none can rekindle the flame. Harken to this warning. Let it not meet a single sole. Upon it darkness is ever clothed in white, fur trimmed, eyes bright - demons as angels will come in twisted song. Day to night. Right to wrong. Dark to pseudo light. So traveller beware. Beware! For the bewitching hour hath begun!
Each eventide gargoyle shadows warp past a metre long, then twist-erase themselves into nothingness. For it is nightfall’s noble habitude, it’s purview and duty to discharge, to clear the canvas of all that’s been in readiness for dawn’s empyreal mirth. So rest easy while they stretch. Fear not the pavement cracks. Ere long each vanishes as certainly as the clocks turn. Time marches and, to its beat, they have but a scant and withering retort, cloaked as it is in lies.
The city streets were a washed out grey. The sky was a rock-pounded denim. Birdsong trickled out in dented waves, as if feathered friends cried this way. Engines started and stopped. Horns honked. Crowds, heads low, kept their eyes on concrete cracks. No whispers. No chat. Either yelling or nothing at all. Society, society, wherefore art thou society?
Winter freeze fractured the dreaming air, until in shards of hope we stooped. Limbs of kin and bough did tremble-shake. Coal-veined clouds loomed. Ice pellet rain slew in unforgiving slants. Wind thought not lessen, and instead slammed full force. Window panes rattled. Mean drafts redoubled. Puddle mirrors found no sun. For time out of mind, a season had ne’er been so harsh, so capricious and cruel. Each bore it best they could in silent solemnitude.
Bleakest night laced itself with a frigid wind, a frigid wind threading intricate wire loops. Upon it was borne an impugning moan of curdling audacity. Cry! Cry! So it went on! Such a cruel limping immorality! As a faithful servant of winter’s seal the howl sublimated its passions, for a deft hand ‘twas it in creation of pretty snow and ice; so much delight did it bring. Yet on this most cold of days, ere nightfall was in full-flow, we fled down the cobbled street. We fled fleece-wrapped and sought sanctuary with faithful kith and kin.
As a freckle-star tumbled from the heavens, the little house nestled upon the onyx hill. It glowed amid the black of that abandoned mine. Broken slates were its daffodils. Rusted engines whistled in wintry winds. Whipped dust was its only confidant. I saw it from the city, aglow and yet alone. Legends are born in such places, far from the madding crowds. So one day, backpack snug to my shoulders, I made the climb with fullest-heart. Then there it was, a humble concrete dwelling, white painted, cherry window sills and blackest asphalt door. Sunsetting, a hearth fire flickering life into window panes, I raised my hand in request of entrance.