Fran Grappe

Manderley
With excerpts from Daphne Du Maurier

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. The echoes of our lives in this forgotten mansion ring through the silence. But Manderley is no more. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my dreams to the lodge-keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer thought the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited. Sadness came, for I longed to return to my home, my past. I want to reopen the bottle of cherished memories and relive those simple days. But Manderley is no more.
            No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. The like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me twisting and turning as it had always done, but I knew what lie ahead. The road was now dark, even though it was midday. Beams of sun, as small as thread spilt through the darkness. Vines creep across the dirt and up the thick trunks of trees. This was not the same road that I had taken so many years before. I was puzzled, but then I realized that wilderness had come upon our Manderley, our home, and had made it its own. The elegant rose plants and strong oak trees had been intertwined with Wisteria and ivy. Then the path became wider and before me lay Manderley, crumpled and destroyed. Fire had come long ago and taken away my home and comfort from me. The stones lie on the ashes. Beams of wood angled against the remains of walls. I felt, even in my dream, a sense of grief. I cannot go back to my home. Manderley is no more.

Narcissus

The man looks at his reflection in the glass.
He sees only perfection.
His flawless skin is bronze and thick.
His radiant, green eyes are glowing beneath
Arched eyebrows.
His smile curves, dimples forming
His white teeth hiding behind full,
Pink lips.
Narcissus will not last.
The clock ticks minutes.
Time carries the years
Disappearing out the window
And into the distance.

Now he is left with only wisdom and memories.
Does he still see the perfection?
Questioning his past
Was his youth a gift?
Or a curse?
The nightmares of his selfishness and ignorance
Pass through his drooping eyes.

His status as a god is now diminishing
His gilded beauty is washed away by the rains of time.
He turns mortal with each silver hair.
He descends Mount Olympus with each
Crease beneath his eye.

His beauty had lain only on the outside.
The echoes of his arrogance ring through
His ears.
The man’s reflection is flawless no more.