Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
As the evening rain settles in,
Inside the Nocturna Club,
It was warm and dry.
Open fires roar,
And lamps illuminate both
Members and ornaments alike,
With a golden glow.
Marcel Carreau loves such evenings,
When he can look out
Across the club knowing,
That everything as it should,
And all are content.
It was at this moment
That his meditation
was interrupted,
By the soft voice
of the Still-Room Attendant,
Mabel Cobble.
At midnight,
Upon the twelfth night
Of December,
The old oak doors
Of Nocturna
Opened quietly,
And Belladonna Moreau
Stepped inside.
Few members
Ever addressed her
By her given name.
To everyone
She was simply,
“Ding Dong.”
The little ornate black box
was carried into the Nocturna Club,
By a little person.
Her name was Latty Flouse,
Or at least that’s the name
She chose to use here.
How old she was,
Nobody knew,
Her hair was perfectly white,
And stuck out
from beneath her black bonnet,
The train of her dark floral dress
dragged behind her,
Her tiny gloved hands,
Grasped her prize tightly.
As she greeted attendant Gideon Rook,
Who promptly
Showed her to a private booth,
Where he extended a small set of
Mahogany steps concealed within
the ornate booth bench.
Without a word Latty
Stepped up into the booth
And slid the box onto the table.
Mr Rook then departed
to collect her tea.
Raspberry was her tea of choice.
“Good evening, Mr Bloom”
She announced.
To the smartly dressed
and equally diminutive gentleman,
seated opposite her.
“My dear Latty,
is that what I think it is?”
He replied excitedly.
“Oh it is, please,
Be my guest”
Oleg Bloom,
Was a peculiar little man,
Always dressed in a dark pinstripe suit
with deep purple waistcoat,
And matching purple velvet slippers
that were currently
Tucked up onto the large bench seat.
Above his long white beard,
Stared two inquisitive blue eyes.
Oleg and Latty were Mycologists
And had spent their entire lives,
As global mushroom hunters.
Individually they have travelled the world,
in search of the rarest specimens.
Together they have single handedly populated
The Nocturna garden beds with
The most beautifully coloured fungi.
“I say Latty, this is remarkable”
Smiled Mr Bloom,
As he removed the lid from the box.
Gideon Rook soon returned,
Placing a small silver tea set on the table.
Out of professional courtesy,
He did not comment,
But was quite surprised by the
Bright glowing mushroom in the box,
it’s blue phosphorescent glow
Filled the booth,
Illuminating its smiling inhabitants.
Whom Rook now observed,
Were holding hands
Either side of the box.
Staring deeply at one another,
Not noticing,
That tea had been served.
Without looking away from Bloom
Latty asked Mr Rook to send for
Club manager Mr Carreau.
A request he promptly obeyed,
With a small bow.
Marcel Carreau was already on his way,
The astute Frenchman
Catching Rooks eye immediately.
He warmly greeted the pair.
“Bonsoir, Madame et Monsieur,
And what do we have here?”
Latty looked up at Carreau smiling,
“The Somnolucis Caerulea…
It’s the Dreamfire Lantern.”
“From the Vale of Sleeping Stars”
Added an exuberant Mr Bloom
“Oh you don’t say”
Replied Carreau.
Latty continued,
“According to legend,
the fungi grows where fragments
of fallen stars become buried
beneath ancient woodlands.”
Excitedly Mr Bloom adding,
“Its radiant blue glow never fades
and is said to brighten whenever
two soulmates meet.”
The pair returned their gaze
to each other.
“We’d like to add it to the
Nocturna collection.”
Latty continued,
Without looking away.
Marcel Carreau smiled warmly.
“It would be Nocturna’s honour
To become its custodian.”
Latty finally looked away
From Mr Bloom.
“It belongs here.”
“So do we.”
Mr Bloom smiled.
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
Carreau inclined his head.
“Then allow the club
To thank you.”
His eyes drifted briefly
Towards the bar.
Edgar Brillows
Already understood.
Moments later,
Gideon Rook arrived
With a polished silver tray.
Upon it rested
Two elegant crystal glasses,
Each filled
With a luminous sapphire cocktail,
Its pale mist
Drifting gently
Across the tabletop,
Reflecting the mushroom’s
Unearthly glow.
Carreau smiled.
“A small toast,
To remarkable discoveries.”
He quietly withdrew,
Drawing the velvet curtain
Behind him.
The conversations of Nocturna
Returned once more
To a distant murmur.
Inside the little booth,
Neither tea
Nor cocktails
Were touched.
Latty Flouse
And Oleg Bloom
Simply sat together,
Hands entwined,
Watching the soft blue radiance
Of the Dreamfire Lantern.
Until it became impossible
To tell
Whether the mushroom,
Or the two smiling mycologists
Were glowing
Most brightly.
Fourteen years ago,
in a tiny, crowded bar,
She looked back at me with a smile,
She was everything I was not,
Free, happy, and unafraid.
While Americans celebrated,
She taught me to be myself,
That being loved or loathed by others,
Meant nothing.
Even when arm in arm,
Beneath my umbrella
In the pouring rain
I knew.
That girls smile,
would be the quiet measure
Of my life.
And to this day,
it remains my only goal.
“Come, my love, let us dream,” she said,
As together we rested our weary heads.
She took my hand within her own,
And led me where the dream winds roamed.
With eyes closed to the waking land,
We wandered forth, still hand in hand.
The world behind us slipped away,
Consumed by night’s enchanted sway.
The moon hung low above the sea,
A silver lantern shining free,
While countless stars like diamonds gleamed
Across the sky where dreamers dreamed.
We walked along forgotten shores,
Past moonlit dunes and ancient moors.
Strange flowers glowed with spectral light,
Their petals bright against the night.
She led me through the meadow grass,
Where rivers mirrored stars like glass.
Beneath old trees we made our way,
Their branches keeping dawn at bay.
“Do not be afraid,” she said,
As shadows danced where dream paths led.
“Nothing here can bring you harm,
While you remain within my arms.”
So deeper still our journey wound,
Through silent realms where peace was found.
Past faded dreams and memories old,
And fears that once had held me cold.
At last we reached a grassy height
That overlooked the Sea of Night.
The Ocean of Dreams stretched far below,
Its waves adorned with lunar glow.
Together there we sat awhile,
The moon reflected in her smile.
And for a time the world stood still,
As silver clouds crossed vale and hill.
She rested softly by my side,
While gentle waves embraced the tide.
No sorrow stirred, no shadows crept,
The dreaming world itself had slept.
But soon the eastern sky grew bright,
And dawn approached to end the night.
She squeezed my hand and softly smiled,
As morning stirred beyond the wild.
“We will return,” she whispered low,
Before she turned to silver glow.
The dream dissolved, the vision fled,
And morning sunlight crowned my bed.
Yet even now I sometimes feel
The warmth her gentle kiss made real.
And when the moon rides high above,
I dream once more of her, and love.
To see her face is to dream.
Her raven hair is the night,
Her soft lips,
Her gentle embrace,
Cool and comforting as moonlight.
Within her eyes lie distant star fields,
Ancient pathways through time and space,
Mysteries beyond mortal knowing,
And wonders without end.
Should this dream never fade,
I would gladly wander it forever.
For my heart is hers.
Stitched together from corpselike flesh,
Two fractured halves now beat as one,
Two broken souls once torn apart,
Dance beneath the waking sun.
But soft, hewn together forever,
Two lovers force light from the dark,
Like yonder light through broken windows,
Kindling fire from a dying spark.
Loneliness no longer lingers here,
Seated in the dress circle alone,
The symphony of this communion,
Turns silence into something known.
And when life’s chaotic theatre closes,
When the stage lies empty and still,
Two hearts remain in quiet defiance,
Beating together beyond all will.
Today arrived like unfamiliar weather,
a strange sky stitched from joy and melancholy,
an emotional cocktail I could not name,
sweet on the tongue, bitter at the edges,
leaving me wandering the quiet chambers of myself.
My granddaughter,
how can something so small,
confuse the structure of a grown man’s heart?
To see her smile,
to hold her warm against me,
to kiss that angelic softness of her face,
to meet those impossible eyes
as they searched mine with solemn curiosity,
a gaze not yet burdened by disappointment,
not yet taught to look away.
I am undone in her presence.
The great walls I spent years building,
brick by bitter brick,
those fortresses of caution and survival,
fall soundlessly around me.
Laid waste by tiny fingers,
by laughter still learning its own shape,
by the unbearable innocence of trust.
And yet, strangely,
joy enters carrying melancholy by the hand.
Why?
Why does happiness arrive
and make me feel unworthy of its touch?
Why, standing in the warmth of love,
do I instinctively search for shadow?
Perhaps it is fear.
The quiet distance I feel from my own children
lingers like weather between mountains,
and somewhere inside me
a frightened voice whispers,
one day, perhaps, this too.
Will she drift beyond my reach
as time gathers speed?
Will I become another fading figure
in photographs touched by dust?
I want her to think well of me,
as I think of my own grandfather,
whose memory still stands,
like an old tree against a changing sky,
steady, kind, impossible to replace.
And maybe I am afraid,
afraid of failing at something
so desperately important.
Afraid that love, once given,
may somehow not be enough.
Or perhaps the melancholy comes
from feeling time itself moving through me,
the quiet ache of growing older,
of sensing relevance soften at the edges,
of wondering whether one becomes
less central to the story of a family
without ever noticing the moment it happens.
Yet Willow,
dear, impossible Willow,
you are perfection.
And I love you
with a force I did not believe remained in me,
a forgotten chamber of the heart
suddenly flung open to light.
My dark heart worries endlessly,
yes, it circles storms that may never come,
counts losses before they exist,
remembers suffering too well.
But perhaps…
perhaps all the torment,
all the years of stumbling through shadow,
all the grief carried quietly like stone,
were for those stolen moments we shared today:
to see my daughter happy,
steady in her own becoming,
to witness the love they have built,
to hold in trembling hands
the fragile proof that tenderness survives.
Maybe this,
this small girl with searching eyes,
this impossible softness,
this fierce ache of love,
was waiting at the far end of all my sorrow.
And if she was my purpose here,
if all roads bent quietly toward this moment,
toward Willow,
then I think, at last,
I could be content.
Her eyes shine through my darkness like galaxies,
Starfields illuminating the darkest reaches of my being,
Ancient constellations stitched through wounds left unnamed,
Their silver language quieting the storms that I hide in my mind,
In Amber’s gaze, the night bends softly toward mercy,
And even the shadows seem reluctant to remain,
For where her light gathers, forgotten chambers awaken,
Dust-covered hopes stirring like embers beneath cold ash.
I have grown cold, hardened by loss and the ravages of time,
Hued from cold black granite, weather-beaten, broken but true,
A monument shaped by tempests no hand could shelter me from,
Edges worn by grief, yet refusing surrender to ruin,
The years have carved their silence deep into my bones,
Leaving echoes where warmth once lingered unafraid,
Yet beneath the stone, beneath the fractures and the frost,
Some forgotten ember in me leans still toward her distant fire.
For she is with me, and I with her, eternity will have to wait,
We dance together at the edge of the deep green ocean of sleep,
Where dreams drift like drowned stars beneath a moonless tide,
And silence folds around us like velvet curtains drawn by unseen hands,
The dark no longer hollow, but rich with whispered tenderness,
My bride’s breath is a lantern glowing faintly against endless dusk,
As though time itself pauses to watch our fragile orbit turn,
Two weathered souls suspended between ruin and becoming.
Should morning call us back with its pale and restless hands,
Still I shall carry her constellations beneath my fractured ribs,
A hidden firmament burning softly through granite and grief,
For love, once kindled in darkness, learns the language of enduring.
You had such sensitive ways, a kindness and gentility,
In the beginning you were so small and afraid of the world,
But you overcame this, sharing the warmth of a hunded suns,
Like very few others, you were our shooting star,
Shining so very bright, but sadly, fading out far too quickly.
