The House on Lake Maggiore

The House on Lake Maggiore The house on Lake Maggiore was reality, a physical truth, my imagination became the artist. The day has become a deckchair, gently folding itself up as my walk leads me into a discreet street where respectful houses tip their roofs and lampposts bow with good manners. My path dwindles away as I reach the street’s end but an essence pulls me on….pulls me closer then the house steps out to meet me…..not greet me! At a glance, the property appears imposing, broad shouldered, an impressive physique, but as my eyes scan the façade a different opinion is soon being relayed. The walls are damp stained, ivy scrawled, guttering hangs like broken finger nails, tiles cling to the moss for support and shattered shutters stare numbly out. The only faint splash of colour, a sapling tree atop a lofty balcony, waving like a green flag of surrender. The house has long since lost its hug of home; no warmth of a family to bring it to life. I now edge closer to the house, as close as my closeness allows. Of the house, a declared medical opinion would be: the pulse is weak, the heart broken; a fulsome financial advisor’s advice: the pension contributions, too meagre. My contribution offers a sense that the soul of the house has long since fled the nest. Haltingly, my eyes now tumble away to fall upon the disquieting gardens where trees hang about looking for trouble and the bushes gather together sternly watching to see what the wind blows in. Then stitched here and there lie the demonically rooted mandrake flowers deceptively offering up their purple hands of poison. Now my imagination strides in dragging with it a stark image of the dark breaking its claws on me. Then fear flies in with ebony thoughts to shake, sharpen and shiver my spine while my courage, my mettle, my fortitude…. lies whimpering somewhere near my toenails! A tree suddenly shivers, a bird takes flight; fluttered-flushed from its hiding. Then my memory takes flight too only to resurface when I am distanced from the house. There I watch the evening sky cut itself open to lie bleeding scarlet all around. All around… except upon the abandoned house where the sky lies flat, resolutely grey and sad. Yes there’s a step between reality and imagination where creativity likes to frolic, to play; the house on Lake Maggiore was reality, a physical truth, my imagination offered empathy and a spectral encounter! Ian Souter