Abigail Sweet Abigail

It began as a walk
To stir the blood
A remedy for cabin fever
Though the air was cold
The sun was bright
And our souls had become eager

To breath the scent
Of pine and wood
Feel wind upon the face
To gaze..................
Upon the waters
Of gently rippling lake

Our steps took us
By cottages
Many past their prime
Summer homes of
Victorian fashion
Closed and boarded at this time

The path led us
To the Winfield house
Secluded in the wood
Impressive, old,
But left untouched
Thus, misunderstood

I knew the
Ghostly stories
That locals would recite
Tales of the
Told round the campfire's light

Mr. Avery Winfield
Built the home
As master and lord
More elegant
Than anything
The others might afford

Set apart,
Back in the wood
Yet no effort to detect
The envy
Of the summer folk
A home to demand respect

Ah, the parties
Held out on the lawn
On balmy summer nights
Servants serving
Cocktails, and
Exotic French delights

Men in suits of white and tan
As if vacationing
On the Isle
Ladies dressed in dresses
Of old
Victorian style

Couples danced
Under the stars
Colorful and gay
As musicians
Set the rhythem
To enhance the dancer's sway

Then Mrs. Winfield,
Would stand up to entertain
Singing operatic arias
Carried from her
Younger days

Now stories say
That one such summer
At one such gala event
The daughter of Mr. W.
Did take liking to
The son of Amos Kent

Abigail Winfield,
All of sweet eighteen
Read torrid romance novels
And adored the Silver Screen
She filled her day
With fantasy
With men of silver dreams
With love of men imagined
With love of men unseen

But on this night
Abigail did spy
A lad so debonair
With dreamy eyes
A stance of pride
And long brown wavy hair

Their glance did meet
And shyly,
He did make his advance
Her bosom sighed
A yes reply
And they met in raptured dance

They held on
To each other
As they twirled across the lawn
Caught in the trance
Of young romance
A world filled with love's song

Avery Winfield stood vigil
As his pride and joy
Did swim
In the arms
Of this young suitor
Whose love she sought to win

In nights to come
Dear Abigail
Would wait in garden concealed
For a secret meet
While parents sleep
And John Kent was revealed

But on this night
Mr. W.
Watched young Kent arrive
And swore no man
Of lesser stance
Would have Abigail for his bride

In the garden
He bid John Kent to part
No argument
From either child
Would sway the father's heart

That morning
As the clock struck two
John Kent returned to take
His Abigail,
Sweet Abigail
By boat across the lake

He raised a ladder
To her sill
And climbed to waiting arms
Then carried her off
To love aloft
With a lover's spells and charms

Old Avery,
Untrusting soul,
Was listening by the gate
And followed
As the couple
Crept down to the lake

His booming voice
Did echo
As he chided the young man
Avery's anger
Ever rising
Til he struck John with his hand

The boy fell backward
From the dock
Into the cold dark water
And Avery Winfield
Turned to home
Tugging at his daughter

Next morning
John Kent's body was found
An accident they said
The young lad
Must have slipped on wet
And opened up his head

Dear Abigail,
Sweet Abigail,
Lacking in defenses
Did look upon
Her father but once
Before losing all her senses

Years passed on
With Abigail gone
Withdrawn to other place
She never spoke
But in her mind
John Kent wrapped her in lace

Mr. W. and Mathilda
Left this house
Now dead and sad
Abandoned it forever
To the ghosts
Of Lass and Lad

Thus, in tragedy
The story ends
Or so the tellers say
But I and my wife
Began a walk
On this cold and sunny day

We passed the old
Winfield house
Again, upon return
And I swear that
In the top most window
I saw two eyes that burned

Now, I am not one to frighten
But I admit
That I was shaken
I eyed that house
Fot a lengthy time
Absorbed, entranced and taken

We approached the porch
Cautious, yet curious still
And as I stepped
Up to the place
I felt a numbing chill

A creak, a moan
The front door opened
To reveal an aged form
A ghost,
An evil specter,
Invading on the norm?

No, I knew her
In an instant
Twas Abigail come back
A frail
Elder woman
Dressed in lace of black

The years
Had left their mark
Of suffering within
Of loneliness
And love's regrets
Now paled, old and thin

Come in, she said
In voice so soft
Come in to sit for tea
My wife and I
With steps so shy
Responded to her plea

And so,
We gained an ending
To campfire's story told
Of Abigail,
Sweet Abigail,
And the ghosts of Winfield home

by Joseph Petrocelli

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Comments (1)

Very good also. I loved it! Lagaya