They stood as one. Nora clasped her hands beneath her chin as she watched Thomas gently lift the artwork and its heavy frame from the wall to reveal…nothing but a bright rectangle of navy papering where the pattern had been protected from the sun.
Nora sighed and then looked down at the painting he’d propped against his leg.
“Look!” she exclaimed and, as quickly and as carefully as she could, she detached a folded note from the backing. It was addressed to the two of them.
Thomas replaced the painting on the wall and pulled Nora into his lap so they could read it together.
Rather than a letter, they were greeted by a poem seven stanzas in length. He held Nora as she read it aloud:
Beneath the boughs of ancient oak,
The river’s fingers gently stroke
The stones where silent echoes dwell,
Of distant times they softly tell.
The verdant land, so lush, so wide,
Where whispered myths and legends hide,
With poppies bright and willows tall,
And daisies nodding at their call.
A royal house stands at your back,
Beyond the worn and winding track,
Where footsteps fade in paths of gold,
And trees their ageless secrets hold.
Within these bounds, a treasure sleeps,
Beneath the sky where London keeps,
A relic of an empire past,
Yet built with dreams designed to last.
A Roman arch, in time misplaced,
Yet here, by fate, so well embraced,
Its weathered stones, its steadfast grace,
A meeting point, a lover’s place.
The bond should mend, the heart should heal,
Where bending waters spin their wheel,
And love withstands, through tide and time,
Like marble warmed by hands divine.
So onward step, with hope anew,
