She came drifting through the mirror

in the middle of the night.

She wore a see through garment

of translucent lace in white.

When I say that it was ‘see through’

I could see through her as well.

Who was this lovely creature?

Who was this Southern Bell?

 

Her hair hung down in ringlets.

Her garment was cut low

but it didn’t seem to matter

there was nothing there to show.

Her vacant eyes were staring

and on her cheek a tear.

Then she drifted to a gilded harp

and sat in a gilded chair.

 

I wondered as I watched her strum

upon an ancient string.

No sound of note or chord I heard

as she began to sing.

But her lips were moving with the words

as she fingered the melody.

The question beat upon my brain.

Who could this lady be?

 

So I arose from my canopy bed

to stand on floors of oak.

And I let her finish playing,

before a word I spoke

and as she turned to face me

her beauty was a spell.

Who are you lovely lady,

my ghost of a Southern Bell?

 

“I am a Planters daughter.

This was my wedding day.

But I can never leave here –

as my lovers gone astray.

So until his soul is quiet,

I must sing my lonely song

of love that’s unrequited

and the things that he did wrong.”

 

“He was the local heart throb.

Girls swooned to touch his hand.

He had a hundred lovers

across this cursed land.

I was quite contented to –

be one of the mindless many.

But I never thought my rival would be

a heartless “Spinning Jenny”.

 

“The night before our nuptials

he was captured by her charms.

Falling into her bosom,

caught by her loving arms.

He went through the spinner

to become a skein of yarn.

Purchased by a farmer

who hung him in his barn!”

 

By now my mind was reeling.

“Please tell me more.” I said.

I was caught up in her story.

I was tangled in its thread.

“What happened to that farmer?

Where did he use the yarn,

that was spun by Spinning Jenny

and hung up in that barn?”

 

She sat there softly sobbing,

her voice was quavering.

“It must be hard for a landed Lord

to end his life as string.

I know he was a lecher,

I know he could be a swine.

But my heart is greatly saddened –

to think of him as bailing twine.”

 

Oh woe my beautiful lady,

my heart goes out to you.

Perhaps if you wandered

the hill and dales,

your lover would be there too.

“I can’t.” she said in a whisper.

“Not someone in my position.

I’d make such a mess

of this wedding dress.

Besides, I like to be Air-conditioned !

 

 

David Garlick, Jackson,  L.A,  1990