I saw you last week.
We were in Willow Woods, in the coppiced clearing, just half hour after the snow storm stopped. Do you remember me, wearing my red parka?
In the whiteness I didn’t see your dappled horse until she stepped out of the trees. She spooked my friend Greta. Then I saw you, wrapped in polar furs and power. I didn’t feel then what I feel now for you. I didn’t see your beauty, I saw something predatory about the way you prowled the edge of daylight. I judged you wrongly.
When you paused on your travels I thought you wanted to kill us. Well, Greta did. That’s why we ran away. Now I keep thinking about what should have happened, if I’d stayed. I don’t know how to be romantic. Would I tell you how your lips look like luscious red roses against your milky cheeks? No, that wouldn’t work. I’ve never done this before, never wanted to.
Greta said you were a white witch that brought the snow down from the mountains. It’s stupid, I know. We’d watched the snow settling for days before seeing you. It was everywhere. That’s why we left the slush in the city to throw snow balls in the clearing. It was Greta’s idea. She’s like a little sister to me. Such a child.
I see everything much better now. Last week, when I was over at Mr Jackson’s farm moving hay from the loft to the stalls, something got in my eye. It hurt so much I shifted and fell from the loft, banging my chest. I was in agony, but after a couple of hours the pain passed. Since then, I’ve seen the real world, how fragile life can be. I see the petty things for what they are.
That was when I stopped doting on Greta, tending the roof garden, or even staying in that prissy little town. Please believe that I’ve learnt from my mistakes. I was a child, scared of a docile horse and a beautiful stranger. Never again.
I remember the musky scent of your furs, sweet and earthy. How can I remember the way you smell, but never get the chance to hear your voice? I yearn to hear anything from your lips, just don’t laugh at me. Say one word and I’ll be with you.
I know this letter will never reach you.
Where would I send a letter to? If I knew where you lived I’d be there before the Sun rose, but you’re like a shadow in the snow. I imagine you as my Snow Queen in a mountain palace waiting for me to find you. I’d be better off burning this letter and watching the ashes float on the wind. Maybe if I follow them they’ll lead me to you.
Find me and I’ll be yours forever.