A young maiden -  I do so seek.

by

Thomas Leathan-drum 

 Each morning once the sun has returned from its slumber; from its travels beyond the universe; having raced passed our brother and sister planets~planets with their eyes upon our demands of superiority over all other life forms in the universe; this very sun being aware of our existence, our corner of the world: not that any map shows corners — however we're all familiar with the saying.

      Not to ponder on the subject of space and science fiction, nor space travel and the alike, which has little, if nothing to do with my story; I will concentrate on the corner of my world — starting with, I a love struck lover of a young maiden; not a word used so much today as was once; I adventure out — as I have with every opportunity, over the last month or more, in the hope of meeting again, the said young maiden / girl / women women~she, I have passed several times, and as of yet; not summoned enough courage, even to glance in her direction' or be the author of any words.

       Taking the route that has proved on more than one occasion, to have the greater likelihood of success, of being the path I, her young admirer hopes; this female form and animal of my desire takes; unfortunately the path and the day will be of her own choosing, and no amount of praying, not that i'm a believer in pray; assists my endeavour, leaving me extremely frustrated when it fails to be correct.

     We're all taught the sun rises in one direction and goes down in the other, I will confirm that this is correct; i'm very well addressed with almost every short cut to anyplace in any direction, and how long it will take to any given place; I can recall when asked, the name of a street three blocks from where I maybe asked from.      Some close to me, say I have names for the three black swans and the ability to differentiate between each bird, even with their heads underwater; again nothing of any great importance to many, yet I am the wiser for knowing: however what is~is when will I cross the path of my young maiden / girl / women (she is all the same to me), and what will be the first words to flow through my lips?

   Before we learn when, where and what, are the first words spoken, we need yet to establish if they ever do manage a rendezvous.      Okay: for the sake of the story they do.    Lets say it's a warm Sunday morning; the sun we have been going on about, has returned from the far off galaxy and brushed the sleep from all the eyes of the world, woken every bloody living sole, in every little corner, even if there's no corners, including "Cher," "Serena" and "Lorde," the three black swans.

     I dress~dress like a peacock on heat; my plumage brushed, my shining white teeth glow, wearing a clean(ish) T shirt, my best jeans, my "Nike" sneakers — cool sun glasses; the mirrors doesn't lie.

      Now off counting the street lights, pacing the distance between the joints on the concrete footpaths, picking up a little stones, or a discarded twig, then tossing each into the accompanying waterway policing his walk; his steps lengthen and then shorten, and then take a turn to the left, and then to the right, each time including a little skip, like a child playing — a skipping game, who knows? who cares, when you're in love, anyway this is what's happening today as he heads, to where in his head, the young girl will be walking; either towards him or in the direction he heads.

Then; a short distance off and heading his way, a female figure so intermit in his dreams.

     I have just enough time to run a finger through my hair, and a pull up my jeans ... our eyes meet and like blue tack fix themselves fast; today her little figure is fuller, more grown up, my eyes are telling me.     The sound 'Ah!' escapes my head, closer she comes, and the closer we are together, our steps do not increased or reduced; will she acknowledge my existence.     Hi, to my astonishment (what a great surprise) I said hi! Shit, I thought, after all this time, I've said the first words and she has not fainted, nor walked by, what's more, she's replied with 'hello'. 

   There is that moment now, we are stuck fast in each other's glaze, my face is bright red~redder than the kitchen wall at home, red like a tropical bird in the tropics; my head burning, my hands sweaty, my feet swimming in water, and my is tongue is tired; not another word can set itself free.     

    Take pity on a poor love struck boy, young maiden, of his dreams, for he is in love with you and you have taken his breath away with your sweet young youthful demeanour, with your smile, your kissable lips, your slim hips, your slender long legs, your gentle breasts.

     Stop, stop, I hear you say; yet me recap - I leave the house; it's a warm Sunday morning, I turn right at the corner, walk pass twelve houses, fourteen lampposts, step over eighty-two joins, and with the toe of my sneakers stepping on only seven, then I stopped counting: cross the main road onto a gravel path towards a beach access; the path talking me behind back yards of people's houses, some with owners in house, others not, the path taking me over bridges, some with water cascading with joy and purpose, some spanning a dry bed where the high water mark as yet to penetrate; to my delight on an occasion, seeing sailing boats or yachts enthusiasts playing with their toys; with on time to stop to admire or comment on their beauty, I march on in a merry-way.

     It is this path, his favourite, one he has walked more than once, and seen more than once the young maiden he seeks and desire with all his heart, to stop and talk to~to ask of her name, to encourage conversion with her, to recite poetry to her good ear, to touch her hand, to taste the nectar of her lips, to wipe a tear from her eye, there from laughter and joy as she marvels within his essence; O! poor modern youth; it's a pity they are not of their parent's childhood, when they could stand face to face, hand in hand, and without guilt give more than a little butterfly kiss, before disappearing behind the bike shed. 

       Having not spoken before, i'm unable to stop the onslaught ... 'I am more than pleased and ever so happy in heart, that you choose this way of coming this summers' Sunday; taking this path without the knowledge that I too would be taking this path this day, and by good luck if not by good management, arrive here at this very spot, allowing our eyes to focus on each other'.        I take a breath; I continued, 'it is so much prettier this way as well as shorter than coming by the main road'.

       'Yes'. The young maiden replied, replacing her left hand on the small basket with her right, her bright smile had him all a quiver; her admirer would have gone home quite happy at this point of time, content with his achievements this Sunday ... to his corner of the world, to his boy dreams, to his life of yesterday.      But; not now for he had laid his hand on the soft arm~the arm without the basket, and was stooping towards his young maiden so; he with a tear of love, and both lips a quiver, she lifting her head, their eyes meet, closer towards her sweet, timid, violet lips he came.

     'What the Hell do you think you're doing?'    Her voice filled his whole galaxy, it travelled beyond the corner of his world, waking all from their slumber; all in a space of time those words of eight destroyed moments of success and took from this young male lover, hope and intimacy of closeness of any touch of warmth from her, of belonging in this young maiden's most dreariest of dreams, where more than their eyes would meet and their arms would fold, their fingers touching skin ... O! Love is such a simple thing when in a dream.

      Unfortunately this little meeting has not go that well, I have to say; this idol what I have stroked for so long appears not to be the girl of my desires; although, I would not say no; if she were to be honest with me and inflict her naked body upon me, maybe she would use her sweeter treble like voice while placing her soft gentle hand on mine to comfort my damaged heart~the heart she so ruthlessly torn apart, failing to consider the harm to my esteem.       I was dead, if there was any truth in the saying, looks can kill.

     'I stood fast like a statuette made of stone, unsure of what next, a young love struck boy should do, once  vanquished and rejected in love; I did nothing, her slender body moved passed me, the basket once a taking point, now a barrier between us, her blouse when first glanced upon hung freely across her chest, now pulled intoxicating tight; when suddenly I felt a hand placed gently on mine, and a softer voice say, 'kiss my again'.

     Parse the Lord; the church bells ring out for our love struck boy, had he won the heart and love of his young maiden, she, who he has followed, to and from the beach and the shops for weeks and weeks, passing with no more than a glance in her direction; and now he knows her name ... Elizabeth~Elizabeth.      No longer just a tear on his heart strings, a quarter note in the margins of his song book, but a real person~a person to hold and nourish, to fondle and annoy, someone to shower with floors, to woo on cold nights to rub tummies with, O! How blissful is young love.

      I can not recall the dates, for so many we have enjoyed; when together, walked the path that drew us to a couple, at this very spot marked with a white pebble, we stop and embrace; she will draw down her top and timidly opened her bright blue eyes, saying nothing, yet her face saying it all, with loving eyes, her moist ruby lips, parted, quite known to me; she is perhaps an angel, but in the same instant an earthly beast, for making me withdraw my cold hand only to have me carry her basket~her basket of flowers, gathered along our path of desire.

       Although she has such queer ways, similar to her mother, I have gained knowledge over time in regard to her relationships~those of the heart; my Elizabeth can never agree; like her mother before, with her late husband, the number of children we should bring to the family.     More thought and talk among us three, than actual effort made towards the deed in making children has taken place ... her mother, quoting from a George Elliot's classic. "as she'd have a daughter just cut out after the very pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, and bring up with a spoon when SHE was in the graveyard at Stoniton"... again has nothing to do my our story, but don't you just love the way it's said?

      Once Elizabeth's mother was in her coffin and placed in the ground, and once the mourning was completed, and once her room of uncountable years was cleaned of items older the Noah ... the children began arriving.      First a son, the spitting image of his father, no sooner than the womb closed a girl, no more wonderful to her father than that of her mother; but before the earth was a year older and our favourite sun had come and go many times, a third and a fourth and a sixth child followed ... two more daughters and a son occupied the ever reducing space — that was once a haven to a young boy lover and his young virgin maiden. 

    'Are you coming for a walk,' I ask, already half way out the door, 'how can I,' Liz screams back; you could help with getting the children ready.    But I care not to hear, longing for the past~the past when I could see the sum returning from its galaxy hoping adventure across the universe, and through the Milky Way, its rays kissing so many stars and shinning with its best colour yellow, upon the walking  paths of youth.

    O; how I wish for those times again.

Now I'm finished.