Dream Seeds and The Divination Tent - Mystery Solved

When L'Enchanteur devised the idea of the Divination Tent I knew I wanted to go there, but kept coming and going, not knowing what to do. It took the beautiful sketch of the fertility goddess to birth the Tree of Letters at the Hermitage, thereby setting off the thread of her divination. That is, I had to do the work to get the answer. I had no idea this would be birthed, a lost love letter from an animus, to his anima, separated in another time and space. The Tree had saved this message for me, and now it's where it was always meant to be, in my hands.... not in anyone else's. It's one thing to ask, another thing to meditate, and another to make it materialise. So just coming up to All Hallow's Eve, I have put some old ghosts to rest, finally.....

On thinking of green hearts and things unresolved, I went to the Tree of Letters to find some answers. To my surprise Nature had caught one for me, from a long time ago. It was written on parchment in an elegant quill-formed hand. Puzzled, because I had no memory of it, I sat down under the tree near the profusion of violets in green, and cast my mind back. It read:

Dear Salamander (?),

Weeks, years, have passed since your mother found me wanting, and your father made me wait. I lower my fine hat brim as I write, against the Italian sun. The light blooms on the stone ruins of old, and I feel the warmth as I sit and write to you from far away. Ruins all around me of a Golden Age, I can only find respite in my pen. You would be resolute and angry in the English Countryside, dreaming of poets and colours. They didn't wait to let you come and see me, so I could only leave, knowing I was leaving part of myself behind.

Two years on the ring I sought to please you with lies untainted in my breast pocket, a shining example of love. The world has no choice but to leave love at it's last, and might I have any recourse to believe otherwise, none has come to me.

No letter from your fine pen has reached me in the Italian sunshine, no other has caught my eye. Letters fly from me to you, only to return to me in tatters. I will write until you notice that love does not die. It is only the suspicion of it that lives, back in the place where you were born.

I cannot believe you have not read any of my lines, my poems to you, -- I am dreaded to think these may have been intercepted by hands older than your own. Did you ever see them? Were they only drifts on the wind? White shades against the blue?

Write, as I may wait for you, in the Italian sun, stone warmed by light.

yours in the truest confidence,

Columbine (?) 1670 Italy.

I sat in silence, and wonder, at the tree that had saved this missive, in spite of older hands, so long ago. How was it that it came back to me at last? Green circles, perhaps?

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.