Temptation
She was flattered,
flattered by his power and passion
as she watched him
master the currents and swim across
guided by her light
every night of that long hot summer.
He brought her flowers,
sweet smelling oleanders.
She knew they’d been culled
from her garden
but his audacity amused her
and so she gave in to temptation
and invited him in
every night during that long hot summer.
But later their ardour cooled.
He found the water too cold
and she found him too cold.
So she turned out her light.
It no longer shone for him
and he knew it.
But on the night of the storm
he thought he saw it again
and so, tempted and mis-guided
by the fairy lights
he braved the cold tempest.
She mourned his loss
thinking that to join him in death
would be her final temptation.
but then she turned away
and cut all the oleander flowers.
They would join him in the water,
and be a fitting memorial
not her,
no, not her.
Underworld
The book belonged to my cousin.
A relic of her childhood
it was thick and heavy.
Greek legends,
she told me,
myths and fantasies,
gods and goddesses,
not quite fairy stories
and not many pictures,
not enough to interest me,
the eight year old me,
so we both thought.
But then it fell open
and so entranced me
that I was afraid
to look
at the dark
fearsome picture,
the god of the underworld,
a king and his queen
both dark as night.
I closed it quickly,
then opened it
just as quickly
again and again.
I did this each time I visited
just to feel the pleasure of the fear.
She gave it to me eventually,
sacrificed her book to my fear
which wore away
with familiarity.
But the book remained,
so did the underworld
and it's dark god.
First published in Cajun Mutt Press, February 9 2022
The Empty House
It fascinated us as children,
the empty house in the countryside
where we walked the neighbour’s dog.
Why was it empty?
Who had lived there?
We imagined secret passages
leading to priest holes,
walled up dead bodies
and buried treasure.
No one knew.
But we knew
that the dog was reluctant to go near
and we had heard that dogs were sensitive
to the spirit world.
So we knew
it was haunted.
That ghosts lived there,
spirits of the past.
We dared each other to enter
through the broken window.
Maybe we broke it first,
but I don’t remember that.
In the end we all went in,
leaving the dog outside.
But there was nothing.
Just a house.
Empty.
Ordinary.
Not spooky.
Just empty.
I passed it today,
all these years later.
There’s no entering now.
Police tapes surround it.
Maybe the dog knew
that the ghosts were of the future,
not the past.
Secret Passages, Pilcrow and Danger, July 2018
Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social
justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is
especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and
reality. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a
Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including:
Consequence Journal, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Gyroscope Review, Blue Pepper,
Arachne Press and So It Goes.
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
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