The eroding cottage was filled with imagined memories
boards creaking and cracking as she climbs the stairs
Stale smells of old pipe tobacco and sea air
permeate tattered drapes that hang in despair
wind swirling like a turbine picking at the thatched roof
where streaks of sunlight appear kissing the aged floor

Clouds stealing the sun and locking it behind dark forms
glancing occasionally over her shoulder while ascending upward
she questions her motives for coming here for the solitude
miles from anyone or anything for a story, for inspiration
after all her mind is vast, a veritable locker of thoughts and visions

Climbing winding stairs up to the widows’ walk
the railing gives way and sections drop to the floor below
her back to the wall her heart pounds in fear of the near fall
a low throaty laugh rises from the depths of purgatory
was this her imagination hard at play?

Opening the door to the widows’ walk, where Annabel had once tearfully walked
in search of her man sailing the seven seas, who never returned to her loving arms
opened a fissure in time emitting bright light that blinded the writer
hesitantly she reached into the light fingers prodding
swiftly as it came no one heard the gurgles of her screams

Captain we don’t have any clues, the sergeant remarked
an old fisherman found her twisted body on the rocks below
no other car tracks or footprints, just her car with a laptop inside
Suicide? No, not suicide just look under her
what’s etched into her back, I’ve never seen anything like it

Carolee Dennis-Woosley
April 21, 2013