The Iron Lace Lovers

Written by Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik |
Published on:

Still. Silent. Alone. Two iron ice gates kiss as lovers upon a bleak December night. Padlocked. A clean swept path leads up to them. Aside, a lantern, rusted. Two birds sit above: the lovers perhaps? A willow tree with dying berries stands by, marking time.


The snow lies thick on the ground. Untrodden. Unbroken. The pathway leading to the wrought iron gates is crisp and clear of frost of ice, for some unknown visitor perhaps? The evergreen bushes which line the high stone wall as soldiers – guards- broken by the gates are too untouched by the blizzard and its heavy blusters. The icicles hang close to the dying foliage, sharp shards of cut glass, clinging as if terrified to fall and shatter into a million pieces in the deep snow beneath; terrified to break the bright ivory blanket encapsulating the thin grass.


The gates themselves stand proud and imperious against the misty dusk sky. A lace mountain keeping the world out or what ever calls inside its home within. The metal spirals and twists to form immaculate delicate patterns as if the cage of a bird; a dove perhaps? The vertical bars create a clear barricade to the way ahead. A divide. What lies beyond remains unclear. Upon the left gate stand to black ravens. Attracted by the scent of the tree’s dying berries, unpicked in the autumn months perhaps? They face each other directly. Wings folded. One upon the stone pillar that constitutes the beginning of the wall, the other on the gate. They murmur yet not no sound emanates.


Adjacent to the ravens stands a withering willow tree stooping mundanely the gates and obscuring part of the wall. It too is submerged almost entirely beneath a blanket of frost. Behind it a dying apple tree is leafless and sticklike from the harsh wind. The willow tree obstructs it from view almost entirely. The leaves of willow trickles to the floor.


Concealed by the frosted leaves stands a small stone seraph, spying upon the lovers. It is untouched by any frost or snow or ice. The embossed rock which constitutes her delicate body somehow seems to be the origin of a light heat; blessed in this frozen heart of stillness. A gentle tear falls from the angel’s cheek. Still warm. Blessed is this frozen heart of stillness.

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Author: Mitzi Danielson-Kaslik
I’m 15 and Interested in history and English. I dream of being an author in the future.


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