Winding road to Dreams End
Secret hills , bare breasted.
Disrobed years ago.
Heaving rhythmically along valley
Guiding serpentine riverine necklace
Opal pools and crystaline flows.
Leaving depths , skirting the bosom
with its “compact powder” dust
Lightly applied as in her Victorian past.
Covering blemishes and scars.
Thrown on her breath by modern wheels
blown to settle on skin anew.
And "watchout , falling rocks ", the sign says
To fright is not polite.
A great dame , groomed and coiffured so.
more manners she should know.
But nicety is skin deep.
Hidden core of groaning earth,
that macerates below.
No precious gold bedecks her curves,
plundered long ago.
But lays sleeping , deep within.
So ,fair lady , let me pass.
I desire to climb to your crown.
Pilgrim strewn , plateau high.
Where miner dug down deep,
and artist digs , deeper still.
Cocooned amongst its tarnished glint.
In crumbling cottages hidden.
Mine , creations’ source and path.
The old dame calls her suitors still,
mesmerized by her dreams of youth and all that shines.
Hidden deep within the hill.
Some paint , some dig , some pan her depths.
But I am drawn to her heart.
Those chosen few who call her home.
They guard her treasures well.
Privacy and secrets
and remnants of her past.
Quell her tears through tempests ,
calm and conflict.
Her loneliness threatens still.
And one who sees and remembers ,
the refuge offered him.
Moves quietly , weaving a life,
in her hair.
With quills for pins and lacquer bright.
His canvas weathered grey.
Makes up her face , while he weeps.
Snatching moments in the sun.
But hiding from dressing room lights.
He is a master with a brush
his mind on sights so rare.
He dreams and frets and dreams again,
of his elusive muse , not there.
To let her in would be a risk
and nerves are strung so tight.
But bravely he leaves his door open…
and she passes…
the tools of his trade.
Brushes , paint and mirror….
she prays and hopes forever
its’ reflection will show him his worth.
For long suffering is the work he does,
not many get to see.
Keep breath going in the old ladys heart.
His spirit weeps for her , she weeps for him.
What will become of them both ?
Head buried in her chest.
But muse is there to lend a hand,
lightening the air….
He opens his eyes.
Come sit with me and dream she says.
Warm ourselves with your wine ,
and tell me your tales of her.
For muse and he are one and the same,
both seekers of treasures deep.
With trust and care.
He rests a while.
She unburdens him of his fear.
And he in turn ,
unveils a view.
So beautiful , gentle and rare.
A poem about a special place and a special friend….a historic goldmining town and a struggling artist.