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Because a fire was in my head
And cut and peeled a hazel wand
His voice was resonant and the words threaded their way through her and lifted her up. It was a magical poem, perhaps overdone, but it held a lot about dreams and wisdom.
He stopped a moment, half way through the second verse, as if he was searching for the words. She picked them up, half remembering.
And someone called me by name:
It and become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air
He grinned at Kate. “Ah, so you do remember too.” He reached up and plucked a maple leaf from her hair. “Not quite an apple blossom.”
Kate smiled at him and gave a small laugh. “No, not quite.”
He held the leaf, stared down at it.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Kate stood motionless, watching him hold the leaf, speaking to it, as if it were the glimmering girl. She wanted to capture the moment, the voice, the image, the scent of the leaves, of fall that held so many memories. She started to raise her camera, but abandoned the idea. Nothing would capture this moment except what she could conjure up in her mind. The poem. Him, standing there in the filtered light that picked hidden glints in his dark hair, sculpted his face and accented the thick lashes, half-closed as he studied the leaf and spoke the final words of the poem.
He looked up at her and gave her a slow smile and held out the leaf to her. “My lady,” he said. “Though it be not an apple blossom, it is the crowning glory of this wood.”
Kate grinned at him, enjoying the moment. She took the leaf and curtseyed. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
They continued on their walk, Kate tucking the leaf in her camera bag. She scanned the area for more shots as they headed toward the end of the path that opened up onto the lake, about a quarter around the lake, and where they’d parked beside the cabin where Ethan was staying.
Max took that moment to appear out of the woods and race to Kate. She gave him a few pats, and he sat down next to her, his tongue hanging out until she and Ethan continued their walk and he tagged along after them.
“What made you think of the poem?” asked Ethan, coming up beside her. “Besides the obvious.” He gestured around them. “Wood, wandering.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Well I had a few ideas about my next project. Maybe using Irish poets this time. ‘The Song of Wandering Aengus’ came to me.” She bit her lip. “I mean, I know this isn’t a hazel wood, and I’m not really sure where I’d find one near here.”
“I guess there aren’t any hazel woods in Italy, either,” he said.
She snorted. “No, probably not. Which is just as well, because Giancarlo wants me to do another project with Italian literary figures.” She made a face. “Like Dante.”
Ethan looked up sharply and laughed. “Dante. You’re joking. How would you capture that in images, or does he want to insinuate that Rome is one of the circles of hell?”
