End Of The Road Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

It ends where it began up over yonder hill
where neither man nor ghost should ever resign,
where the vines rise over a mansion standing still
with windows dark as night and forest walls define.

Truth is born in darkness but thrives within the light
and there within its brilliance can clearly be seen.
I shudder as I tell you of that dreadful night
when last we all saw her, Ms. Elizabeth Greene.

The kind and gentle lady of Halloway Hall
was the loveliest lady in all of the land.
Never once was she married but turned away all,
spurned even the noblest who offered his hand.

She saved them as keepsakes, as smiles behind her frown,
her sadness hiding within the bell of her laugh;
but her laugh was like a cloudburst, tumbling down,
the truth of her tears revealing her sadder half.

It was no deep secret to those who knew her best
why she chose such solitude and dwelt there alone.
He peered through a locket that hung next to her breast.
The weight of his memory was her crushing stone.

His name was Brandon Blackwood, of Scottish descent;
and he was smitten by her and she by him too.
The world was their stage, and they were magnificent
and nothing was impossible for them to do.

But time is fleeting and turns blushing petals pale.
Curses are born in a world once divinely blest.
Too well we know the ending of love’s woeful tale,
the stain of red wine as it’s prudently pressed.

For Blackwood sailed upon HMY Iolaire,
and he lost his life when it struck the Beasts of Holm.
The New Year promised peace, but rocks of rue declare
that peace will never come to those who wait at home.

The silent sea, its deep heart, could not hold nor hide
its sorrow over the loss of the men who died.
Stornoway wept over the symbols of its pride
washed ashore one-by-one upon the wintry tide.

Elizabeth went numb; in silence she was bound.
No joyful greeting to cause her memory live.
No tears, no thoughts, and no words, not even a sound
to express the sorrow that mortal time can give.

The blue kiss of death is endless, can never be
merely a shadow which dances on the verge.
The sun sets, the seasons change and roll out to sea,
and the mists of mourning become a silent dirge.

Halloway Hall lays dormant, lifeless, deathly still –
a monument to a love that loved to the last.
It ends where it began up over yonder hill
in the trumpeting chill of time’s merciless blast.

For, one early-morn rise, as she slept in her bed,
a legion of lightning struck in turbulent waves.
The cruel sky billowed and thundered overhead
pouring its treacherous breath over silent graves.

It struck the rooftop with a mighty bolt of light
and shuddered the rafters with its violent beck.
In a panic, she sat up and trembled with fright,
reaching at once for the locket around her neck.

The curtains were burning, and the house was aflame.
Elizabeth began to run toward the stairs,
but she stumbled and fell and with a loud exclaim
tried to get back up between power and prayers.

Alas! She was caught by a small hole in the floor
through which the locket was irretrievably hung;
but she wouldn’t loose it, it was worth dying for,
for a part of her died with her true love so young.

And there they buried her beside the charred remains
of the vine-hidden mansion that rises unseen;
and I’m reminded of the January rains
when last we all saw her, Ms. Elizabeth Greene.

Such love in its splendor no death can defeat.
It declares with one final act of devotion
that no matter the time, it shall never retreat;
for it is deeper than the depths of the ocean.