Monday, 5 August 2013

250 Words: The Eve of St Agnes

Saint Agnes, after recently learning about you at the Tate, I sat all day listening to the winter's wind but not letting it chill me for thoughts of the knowledge you would bring me in my dreams, or the mirror, of my future man and lover.  All day I dreamed and hoped of who it would be.  I reminisced about boys at school and men at work, running my mind over everyone whom I had ever imagined running their fingers through my hair and whispering their love in my ear in all manner of situation and location.

Oh, wise Agnes, how I prayed today; and followed the rituals all day: abstaining from food and preparing the dumb cake for bed time in silence; as well as changing my sheets and transferring the seven pins to the left sleeve of my cleaned and pressed nightdress.

In bed I expectantly lay, awaiting sleep to take me and to educate me.  But, dear sweet Agnes, nothing happened- too much anticipation left me restless and I rose from bed, walked to my dressing table.  The pins loosened themselves and fell, each reporting its treachery on the wooden floor.

And so I sat at my mirror patiently waiting and staring past each shoulder in turn.  But no matter how much wine I drank or dope I smoked, there was no-one but me. 

Oh Agnes, why?  What did I do wrong?  Did I lose hope too soon?  Or is it that I am just too old?

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