About one middle aged man and his lost voice
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said without words ‘I need you, ’ She didn’t reply. She just wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close.
He had been handsome
with sandy hair
and piercing blue eyes
the colour of a tropical sea.
When he smiled
those eyes had twinkled
extending into long white crow’s feet
on his weathered brown skin.
His mouth had turned up at the corners
even when he was solemn
as if a smile was his natural expression
and it cost him to be serious
He bounced when he walked,
his chin high,
his shoulders square,
exluding a wild and raffish charm
powerful enough to soften any heart
“Oh, I fear for you, my son,”
his old mother used to say.
“I brought you into the world
and yet I can not protect you from it.
I do the best I can, but it is not enough.”
He would just smile tuning his guitar
and when she started to sing
he would settle his eyes
on her face.
There was something tender
in the way he looked at her,
as if his restless eyes
had found refuge there.
He wanted so badly to sing.
His voice rose up from his chest
like lava.
It boiled and bubbled
and grew so hot.
He felt the sweat gather
on his nose in small beads.
He was ready to burst with song.
and Yet he couldn’t…
He had loved the lady next door
with all his heart when he was a boy.
It was a love bright with awe
and admiration,
like one might feel towards a rainbow
or a golden sunset:
a distant,
unattainable, idealised love.
And he missed her terribly
once she moved out
out of their backwater town
to live in a big city
She never knew of his love.
He had no words to tell.
Later he discovered
another kind of love
to fill the hole that the lady
of his dreams had left.
A love born out of gratitude
and an understanding beyond words
his childhood friend
the only childhood friend
his Jane
The were still children and yet he thought of her
every hour of he day as a man would.
He lingered by the bridge in the hope
that she would seek him out,
and she did seek him out,
as often as she could.
When he wasn’t attending to flowers
for his mother to sell
He was with her
and when he went to bed at night,
it was she who chased his nightmare away
and filled his head with her gurgling laughter
and invincible spirit.
She talked with her lips
he answered back with his eyes.
Before Jane came to his life
he had been content
playing among the flowers alone.
He had accepted the fact
that he couldn’t speak
without complaint.
He had grown used to it.
Besides, before, he had had no friends
other than his mother.
Now, the lady next door had opened his heart
and Jane had reached out to him.
He wanted to break the pane of glass with song
and touch Jane with words she could hear.
He didn’t want to be an outsider any more.
He felt hot tears sting his eyes
and wiped them away in a fury.
Jane planted a kiss on his cheek.
Finding him once crying by the creek
It remained on his skin
the entire life like a whisper.
She said she’d always be there for him.
But that wasn’t true.
Nothing in life is permanent.
Time would carry us on,
but it would run out eventually.
His mother said once to him
the day she found out she has a cancer
The following year she wasn't there any more
and he was alone again.
Always alone
among the rows of blooming flowers
no one was there to sell
anymore,
a solitary ageing chevalier
with no words
to tell.
He watched them walk away.
Side by side,
husband and wife,
leaving him alone
and bewildered
on the cemetery.
He gently placed
the favourite flowers
on his mother grave
and turned to catch
her parting glance.
There was anger in him
in spite of its tenderness
He had no justification
for being furious.
They had been children, after all.
But she had been his special friend;
her husband his enemy
for he can talk.
Seeing her after so many years
he had suffered the same dizziness
in the head,
the rush of blood to the heart,
the spinning sensation in the stomach,
the sense of grappling against gravity
to hold on to someone
and the terror of losing them.
He felt it then
he feels it now.
She hand never belonged to him
but he was overcome with a need
to hold her.
He opened his mouth to shout
to stop her
but no sound came out.
He hunched his shoulders against the cold
and thrust his hands into his pockets.
With a pang of regret,
he watched them disappear around the corner.
She didn’t look back
and he had no voice to stop her.
He turned to walk back to his flowers
and his lonely house.
Standing in front of his mother’s
childhood home,
for once he didn’t think of himself
and the voice he had lost and never found
but of her and the losses she had endured.
She was alone.
Abandoned by the man, his father
she had loved.
Ostracised by the town she had grown up in,
disowned by her family.
she had endured far more than him,
and what is more,
she had never stopped loving him.
In spite of his anger,
the abuse he hurled at her growing up,
disappointed with his muteness
and disability to voice his desires
his rages and tantrums,
she had never closed her heart to him,
or the door.
He awoke the following morning
determined to change.
He never looked back
and he never searched
for his lost voice ever again.
Mary wiped her tears and kept driving
she was on the end of her road,
freshly divorced and without work or aim.
The sweet smell of flowers lured her towards
the old farm gate.
Finally she drove the car
into a rustic farm entrance.
There were barns on either side,
their walls pale beneath red tiles
and raws of flowers everywhere.
She noticed a red tractor and smiled
her father owned one on their family farm.
She drew up outside the house.
It was pretty with tall slim chimneys
and windows framed by white shutters.
Ivy grew up the walls
like the beard of an old man.
Mary stopped the car and stepped out.
Standing a moment on the gravel
she looked about her
and soaked in the warmth of someones’ home.
Somehow she could feel she should be there
and this is the end of her journey
She didn't know who he is
but she knew he was there
because she could feel him.
A moment late, when he stood in the doorway,
with sandy greyish hair
and still piercing blue eyes
the colour of a tropical sea,
when he smiled
those eyes had twinkled
extending into long white crow’s feet
on his weathered brown skin.
Mary was suddenly shy
'I love your flowers,"
she whispered at last,
his wizened face broke
into a tearful smile
and he opened his arms
to welcome her home.
‘Two strangers embraced,
without words
savouring the strength
of their bond
that had enabled them
to be close.
He looked old and fragile in the doorway,
she noticed
and suddenly felt the strong urge
to take care of this man
who didn't talk and just smiled.
Inside the house
he carefully unwrapped the old guitar
and when she started to sing
he settled his eyes
on her face.
There was something tender
in the way he looked at her,
as if his restless eyes
had found refuge there.
