In Springtime, they wander through the flowers, walk in meadows, long, happy hours. “A year this June,” Tommy said, “in yon church we will be wed. You’ll meet me at the garden gate. My carriage comes. Don’t be late!”
Summer’s languid afternoon found Kate and Tommy on the ground, the picnic blanket spread, their hungry bodies to be fed. “Not yet,” said Kate, “Mama counseled me to wait. The pleasures of wedded life to be shared by man and wife.” “I’ll wait 'til then, don’t be late. Meet me at the garden gate.”
That Fall needles on the ground from dark green pine trees all around. “Here, Love, lie with me on the duff.” “Oh, Dear One,” said Kate, “That’s not enough. I’ll hold and keep you evermore after we exit the church house door. I’ll meet you at the garden gate. And, oh, Tommy, don’t be late!”
Winter's winds now harshly blow as Kate walks alone through the snow. Her heart, though is far away for on this cold December day Tommy’s ship is hast'ning home and nevermore shall Tommy roam. His last words to her had been, “Don’t be late; I’ll meet you at the garden gate."
And at June’s first full moon breezes aloft softly croon. Kate in gown of white shimmering in evening’s light was waiting at half ‘til eight at end of lane, at the garden gate.
The moon is high, no longer evening; bright, starry sky. Tommy’s horse and shay have not appeared this summer day. Mama comes to hold Kate’s hand. The girl sobs, “I don’t understand. He said he’d meet me at garden’s gate; promised he would not be late.”
“Kate,” Mother said, her voice severe, “Each mid-June you have stood here. Tommy’s ship went down, you know. It’s time for you to let him go. It’s now been eight long years. Get up, sing again, and dry your tears. Tommy cannot meet you at the gate; life marches on, and you’ll be late.
©2015 David W. Lacy
©2015 David W. Lacy
8 comments:
Sad, but beautifully written.
Vee, sad, oh, yes, I cried, and I invented those people. Well, tear ducts need to be flushed occasionally.
It's still a beautiful poem I'm guessing Edgar Allan Poe invented his characters, also.
Vee, thank you.
Had Kate known what "A year this June" would bring, would she have waited through summer and fall? I rather like to think she wouldn't have, but that would have robbed the poem of its beauty.
Ilene, "what ifs" are never answered, so we'll never know!
Very well done, my friend.
Thanks for the duct flush.
Chuck, I am honored by these words of the Poet Laureate of Ionia County.
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