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The Gargoyle
He walked through a low archway and found himself
in a green park setting. It could be his secret
garden. He sat under a tree until some kids ran in and shattered
the peace. He got up and walked over to the wall,
climbed the steps to walk atop it.
He looked out over the land again. Fields blotted
the countryside like a patchwork
quilt, to the mountains of the Highlands.
A highway lay at the foot
of the cliff which the castle sat upon,
and several roundabouts directed
traffic to and away. How nice
it would be to have wings,
and to take off from here, right
from this spot, and fly away, over those fields,
and not stop
until the moors had faded
away and the mountains were a distant
blemish and his wings could no longer hold
him above the crashing surge;
and then he would slowly descend
into the waves and sink
and be happy. He wouldn't struggle.
It would be too nice to struggle.
He didn't have wings.
He walked back toward the entrance. An old-time
convertible was rolling out the front gate, with a bride
and groom. People were throwing rice or confetti
or something. There was cheering. He walked
up to the main building, out across
the landing overlooking the garden. Lavenders
and reds and yellows danced
among the green. He looked
behind him. Several ugly faces
had been carved into stone, jutting from the rock
face of the castle. They were intricate
in their utter grotesqueness,
their pig noses and cocked
heads and wide eyes and extended
tongues. He sidled up next to one,
stared it in its eyes, smiled
at it, and it began to talk.
© Luke Evans
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