Still

Still

She walks through the dense forest, mist swirling, undulating around her leather-clad feet.

The silver moon above gleams against the velvet blackness of night,

sifting through the gnarled branches to cast fingers of shadow upon her path.

With the high howl of the banshee, the wind gusts, pushing and pulling at her cloak,

tangling the dark cloth around her legs before billowing out behind her like a ships sail.

And still, she walks.

Thick clouds roll across the sky, obscuring light and stars,

turning the trees into twisted silhouettes of gloom whose reaching arms scratch and claw.

The temperature palpably falls, thunder trumpets in the distance.

Rain begins to fall, cold, icy droplets stinging across her face and gloveless hands.

The leave-strewn ground turns wet and slick, threatening to bring her to her knees with every step.

And still, she walks.

The forest slowly parts, revealing the hidden clearing that is her destination.

A pedestal of stone rises there in the glen hewn centuries before by unknown hands.

Heart thumping against her chest, she crosses to stand before the bowl-shaped rock.

Her cold, shaking hands reach up to unclasp the chain from around her neck.

Little moonlight left in the onslaught of the storm reflects dully off the key dangling from the links.

And still, she hopes.

Water collects within the belly of the basin, rippling across the surface by the still unappeased wind.

Her reflection, ever changing and distorting with the tiny waves, stares back, expression made unclear.

Gently, her movements almost reverent, she lowers the key to the bottom of the shallow pool.

The elegantly scrolled silver key now shines there in the depths, winking and taunting with its brilliance.

But no other image reveals itself to her, no sign of the love she lost, the love she waits to return.

And still, she hopes.

Heavy of heart, leaden with sorrow, she retrieves the key which once hung from his neck.

Fastening it again around her own, she turns away to face the forest, the failure, once more.

Another night, cold, empty, hollow will pass until the dawn without his embrace.

And yet she will travel this path every night as before, through any and all storms of rain or winter.

For the legends of the old shallow wishing-well promised her heartâs desire upon viewing it within.

And still, she waits.

Word Count: 394