An Autumn's Tale

rinyville

My closest friend Brenda McNeill wrote the lyrics of this song as a dramatic monologue, and once she showed it to me I just had to turn it into a song:

She swept in, an hour late
wrapped in her cloak
that billowed behind her
Lit the fire and smiled at me
Forgive me, she said, but the boatman was late
the rains….she raised her hands—smooth white hands
around her face—fear was there for a moment
as (she said,) the water (–it)took so long to bail
I said nothing.
She was, my friend, beautiful
and that night when the wind moaned
along the eaves, and the waves lashed the earth
like a master with a slave
she came to me.
Oh, I would not barter this moment, this memory
away for any another
Of her standing at the hearth’s edge,
cloak steaming with the warmth
from the fire
the perfume of lavender (and heather) scenting the air
No, you could not pry this memory away
And there she stood…looking at me
with such eyes—such wide eyes
in such pale pale skin

I had to quell the passion I felt rushing
you understand (of course) what that does
to a man—those strange fits of passion
like the tides they ebb; they flow
they overwhelm
But I talk too much
There she was—breathing as surely as you do
Beside me now
mocking me with your nods and your
all too knowing silence
She was there, I tell you—breathing
In front of the fire. as surely as you and I stand here
breathing in front of the fire
But you say nothing
—only nod
And look around the bare room
And ask about the boat
There is nothing here of her any more
Only her perfume of lavender and heather
hangs in the air—that faint scent that
would drive a lesser man mad—and I admit—
yes I have been mad with fits of passion
Why stare you so at me, sir?
I admit I have been passionate, and she was here
And is here no more.