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Left Ourselves Behind


Our perfumed essence colors the fabric of this land

We are part of what is left here, remnants of us

Behind the lace curtains the story is written on the panes

Two trekkers hid in the midnight crevices of wanderlust

And our footprints left smudges on the moor.


We won’t be denied because vestiges of us linger

Deep and flawless as the intensity of our determination

Our shadows sigh and remember we passed this way

We paused and played, placating the circadian of destiny

And the fronds understood why we embraced at our destination.


— Lora

I Leave Myself Here ~

a heart

I deliver this special item here, on this large limestone rock, one covered in grey-green moss, hoping for him to notice it. My hand will tremble as I lay it with some hesitation.  I am not confident it will be picked up with the same tenderness I place it. Only quiet birds, peeking at me with their intent and wise eyes, are observant of my posture and trepidation. They understand this desire of my nature to remain silent and discreet.

Will he view my outreached hand as a gesture of trust, wishing to have my gift picked up with similar goodwill, as if this piece of myself is one fragile glass,  built strong  but easily crushable by the wrong manifestation of superimposed intense emotion.

I step back and admire it where it lies,  ready to be discovered and retrieved.   Will it become a token for restoration and confinement in a warm hand where it becomes a possession to keep and comfort.

Will it be treasured as the rays of sun are to the dark moor soil, needing warmth to prevent the saturation that will drown it in its own mire?  Can it live on where its remaining time might be leased in a home of genial freedom and yet protected and possessed with faithful affection?

I slowly walk away, with my hand empty but my  spirit in an enchanted state of hopeful.


~ Lora

In the Tomorrow of my Future


During quiet moments, when the air and my mind is crisp, I am able to extend myself forward to another chapter of my future story.  You see, I am already writing my next life, when I, in my present ashes will travel on to the afterlife and I am the same spirit restored to another form.

In this ever-present future, imagined in my empty hours, I am there, at my soon-to-be-real experience, and I am with HIM — Mr Proper, Mr Paragon, Mr. Poised. I have already given him a name, a look, a scent. He whispers gently and never tires of standing by me. I am thankful when we sit though because I do indeed tire of looking upward at this tall handsome figure.

Our house is white and the clearing we stroll in is always green. The shadows are non-existent. Gray days and drab grounds don’t have a season. The world revolves slowly and the hours fly by at the right tempo, that which is set by our contented hearts.

When death ends this current journey, it will be necessary to turn the page and propel the spirit to the legend of another epic time or space where I might very well find myself most pleased…or at least, that is my hope on this day of rumination.


~ lora


A Farewell Lost



Dearest friend,

It’s been half a year and a fortnight since you left us and I still dwell on the times you swept these  wooden floors with your long skirts, when you were in love and the exhilaration of romance kept you in a state of emotional exhaustion.   You didn’t choose to leave us nor to abandon those lavish weekends  of perfume, wine, and that adoring man who wore white ruffled shirts.    

 There are scrolls of meaning written in the dust under the furnishings of the parlor where your thin legs ached from many hours of music and waltz. But you refused to recline because you wished extravagant highlights for your youth and you desired for the evenings to endure way past the midnight hour.  His arms held you tight and you wanted to remain in his masculine hold way past  clock reminders of needed rest.

Mother supplicated with you to pace yourself and to  invite the gentleman for infrequent intervals but you were desperate to lean on his hard chest with your smiling cheek pressed against it.  It was your time to  weep and sing while  the curls of your crinoline left traces of your grand steps in tandem with his.  On the armrest of your chair you’d  forget the lacy hankie that could’ve wiped the poignant tears that pierced the emotions of those moments.  You danced on and on, unconcerned about the pain that would wake you the next sunrise.  

Moonlight brings back memories of you and this evening I can visualize you through the front lawn windows where the sheer drapes outline the silhouette of your soul residing in the drawing room.   Your gentleman still stops by to have tea with us but I know he is only here to touch your spirit and revisit those years when he hummed for you the songs that engaged your togetherness.

 You were a singularly compatible couple, similar of features in physique and grace.  He knew his time with you was precious and never failed to call after you’d sent him notes encased in a glove.  The glove was returned with a knock and his extended hand of requited love.

 Laura, my dear friend, I know nothing can bring a response from you but will you permit me to at least deliver this notion that I carry for so long a time.  It was when you departed on that last coach to the western grasslands that I came to learn what a devoted friend you had found in him.  He, about whom you wrote whispers of sentiments at your desk in the wee hours of the night, cared very much about you. 

 It came to be that I arrived an hour after your departure that night, approaching your home from the northwest corner of the estate.   He had apparently failed to appear in time to send you off with satisfaction of reciprocal parting words. And when I arrived, his cart was parked at that remote location of the property.  He sat with his dark head hung in sadness, alone, and brooding in dejection and devastation for the loss he had just experienced.  He loved you; I know he loved you!  But, he failed to declare his admiration and affection for you and now he weeps with deep remorse.

We never anticipated that we’d never see you again but he, in his heart of wisdom, must’ve known that the final goodbye had just occurred.   The regrets he carries are burdensome, I am inclined to believe.   He is surely of sorrow for failing to promise you the commitment that he had aimed to please you with and now  he must now carry regret until his dying day.

 Please know that your presence with us continues. We walk these bending hills expecting to arrive upon you and that you’ll meet us with your endearing  gentle smile.   You brought immense cheer to us and we hope to find you again when fate takes us through another cycle of rebirth and reconnection.


 Yours affectionately, 




Dear Lora



When you met with him you carried heather

in your basket, initialed,  along with his hankie

to wear the fragrance of him

as close to you as possible.  

He sought you, in response to your affection

and you wore the sparkles of his admiration

reflected from his eyes

on your bosom’s bouquet of love.  


It is apparent and most evident

that he is smitten of you

but how will you deign

to assure him of  mutual adoration

if the willow tree has gone to cinders

and you have no place to drop your hankie?   


– lora

Our Fine Way

How warmly his heart knows mine

that it can encapsulate me

 like a mellow spring flowing fine

And that we simultaneously lean forward

toward the same breeze  entwined.


How well his nature calms mine 

that I do glisten and hum along

 to heart song strumming on hearts’  lining

And that our declared souls shall brim

writing our story in mutual pining. 


~ lora



Releasing Our Wild Flowers

Heather above Rosedale in the North York Moors National Park in the evening, North Yorkshire, England, United Kingdom

I line up the initial stanza words

like blooms ready to burst,

 placing them into their homes

in euphemisms, some lucid with impact

 sorted through collages 

sifted through sieves, and they touching,

teach and reach other with respective fragrance,

understanding their purpose in being

wherefore I place, with pleasure

the staging of their performance.


And thus I begin

Dear one, the you of the woodland’s shoreline.

Often are the times you row to that distant cove

where you prefer to pine, your favorite spot

below the boughs of hanging branches.”



Which flowers shall I pick today,

clover, penny wort, heather ?


I know, dearest, that we must devour life

before death consumes us

and we should select the best of nature

to release into the diagram of our tilled rows.


Between the layers of the pinks and browns

live our earth souls, plumped with purple longings, 

residing in a cemetery of old hopes and new dreams

dying to resurrect themselves in a new garden,

and we must not let them down.”


I open the window and on a shred of light

begin this missive,

one wishing to grow from my inner element.   


~ lora


So Beyond


My dearest fair one,

Forgive me for sharing this unwanted missive with you, but from afar I  see you standing there, looking for a shadow to appear.  Seek no more, sweet child; he is not to be found in the browns or greys of the land as the sunrises have disappeared for the winter.  The days bear no promise and are as barren as his heart and neither are meant to be presumed cordial.

Look not beneath the darkness of the mossy hills as the undulating reaches will yield no happy arrivals.  Only the soft breezes can please your soul with their gently-moving  vines  grazing your brow.  Continue your walk alone and be at peace with yourself.  Keep your eyes trained to the beyond and hope for a silhouette to suddenly appear but do so without  high expectations or  assurances of a warm  tea proferred.

Perhaps – I hope to not raise more than a glitter of hopeful light here – the best of evenings will bring a message of anticipation on one mercurial night and a signal that he might be approaching.  At that hour you’ll sense the ebony sky seared by a smiling sky-scape and the moor will carve a radiant greeting, conceiving a new affection for you, my dear.  Have faith in yourself and your ability to win new hearts or even better, to regain that previous one.

– a distant acquaintance


A Note from Wales


To a letter of correspondence, sent by the man from Wales, I lower my  eyes and read at his behest. 


Dearest Lora, I failed to nod my way to you when you called at the gate on the eve of your departure and I ask for your forgiveness on this day and upon my knee. 

Oh, dear friend of my heart, could you not discern that my auburn beard was hiding a frown which could not reveal to you the pain I felt  when I found your visage cold and empty on that day we were to meet at the bench behind the moor.  Your heart was a reluctant force and I noticed  your eyes containing the lifelessness of a lady deprived of emotion.  

I acknowledge that I, in my  expedient sense of duty to others, have caused thee grief but I beg to offer you a promise of another morrow with less suffering.   If it was not intended for us to walk companionably, I would be the first to load the cart and walk away, with head lowered in dismay for my apparent failure to appeal to the best of your sensitive nature.

Let us be of pride and joy for the concurrent travel we shared, one of robustness of vitality, as once upon a rain season, when the birds and growing buds burst forth, with our hearts in tandem.  

My dearest Lora, your everlasting presence is much required and I would grant thee freedom but my eyes look where you once stood and I feel the ghost of you suffocating me with its power.  I implore you to remain here or I will perish from the pain of your absence.   

Affectionately yours ~ ”  


I place the note in my pocket, close my eyes and feel the  burden of oppressive emotion fall away.  




Following Cathy and Heath


Once,  not so long ago, the fires of love tindered two soulmates upon this dark, dismal moorland. Cathy loved and abandoned Heathcliff  in the years that my ancestors arrived from Wales, and now I too find myself here, listening to  the faint echoes of their footsteps beside mine.   It has been two generations since they crossed these same outposts in this part of England and often I  can hear the wails of their woe.  They were pitifully lonely abject figures of passion and error, and I can hear their lamentations in the distance.


However foiled and human that they may have been, I remain a faithful servant to their memory holding them high in esteemed personification of how I wish to comport myself in the extension of my hand to others.  I wish I could restore the innocence of their childhood friendship when they had charitable joys to share with one another.  Oh that we could reconstruct our pasts and rectify the damage of our past destructions. 

Have faith in me, Cathy and Heathcliff, and trust me to glean from the  seeds of fervent love you left behind.