writing – C O R A V I O L E T

Moonlight Shadow

The moonlight had carried her to the riverbanks. There, she had been swept away, believing she was safe in its magical light. It was not long before she became trapped in its shimmering reflection. She tried to draw breath but found that she could not. A man on a white horse watched from the bridge. He admired her beauty with sadness before turning and riding away. The trees lowered their branches to help her. She reached for them desperately, her outstretched fingers only close enough to brush the tangled vines.

The moon continued to sing its hypnotic melody; the flowers turned their faces away from the blue light.

Her cries went ignored as she pleaded for anyone to save her.

No one came.

She never should have followed the Moonlight Shadow, someone commented. She felt the blame wash over her and she knew that it was hopeless, the act was entirely her fault. She stopped fighting, no longer able to find the strength. She accepted her fate and eventually let go of all struggle. As she disappeared beneath the black surface her spirit floated towards to the sky, still drawn to the glittering light of the moon.

Such a pity, was all that they said and quickly forgot about it. The flora and fauna were the last to mourn her as they released their leaves and petals into the night sky. Those who walked the forest at night could often hear the wailing cries said to come from the Lady of the Lake who, seduced by the light of the moon, was not the first to drown in its shadow.

A walk along the canal in winter

It is winter time.
I venture a chilly walk.
This is my freedom.

My eyes follow the snaky twists and turns. A heavy fog blankets the water obscuring the dark entrance to the century old brick tunnel. This is as far as the footway goes, I would have to go by boat from here. There is a small abandoned wooden sloop without sails tied up next to me but I do not take it even though I am tempted. No doubt it would serve me well, but the tunnel is long , pitch black and frequented by longboats that would easily break the tiny vessel apart. I will save my rowing adventure for another day.

When I recall my canal walks, the smell is the first thing that enters my mind. A distinctive odour of diesel fuel and thick smoke combined with the organic aroma of algae, wet soil and the rain sodden weeds that line the footpath. A pungent whiff of damp clings to my clothes and hair; the scent is lingering. Even days later, I carry the canal on my person.

The world has a grey blue filter pulled over it. The air is icy. The tips of my fingers are numb and I rub my hands together to combat the cold. The wind blows through me and I pull my jacket tight around my body, I should have worn a scarf. My chest feels heavy from the cold, or perhaps it is melancholy, but that is not a new sensation. The dry leaves left on the trees rustle in the breeze. On occasion you can hear the squawk of a crow somewhere in the distance. Children eagerly feed swans and ducks at the water’s edge. I observe them as they excitedly throw large lumps of white bread at the expectant birds. The parents in these scenes always appear anxious to leave, uttering encouraging phrases such as “alright then, last piece” or “come along, I think that’s enough now”.

I envy the people in boats who do not have to negotiate the amblers and the cyclists; I often wish them to disappear entirely. The canal being man-made means the scenery is less naturalistic and far more industrial. The old brick and wrought iron warehouses that line the opposite side of the water give the distinct feeling of being in a Victorian novel or Penny Dreadful. On a misty twilight you wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Jack the Ripper emerge from the shadows. How quickly the eerie scene can shift when the fog clears and the orange sun sets on the horizon. Suddenly the buildings are silhouetted into mere shapes; artistically reflected off the water’s mirror-like surface.

I often forget myself and walk for several hours. Eventually I have to turn around, reluctantly retrieving my steps towards home. The comforting smell of burning wood billows from moored boats; I am suddenly impatient for a pair of warm socks and hot tea. “Until tomorrow,” I think. The water laps gently against several hulls and I know it is saying: I’ll be here.