The ivy wanders; the star shaped leaves open out from the parasitic strength of curling vines that cling to the siding of the old house. They chip away at the flecked lead paint which tumbles to the ground like falling snow, gathering in little piles of dandruff on the earth.
An old wagon wheel leans against the sagging porch that groans under the weight of time. The door, creaking on it’s rusted hinges, swings to and fro which each soft breath of warm Savannah wind.
The old plantation home sits cloaked beneath the arching boughs clothed in draping Spanish moss. The pathway, dotted with granite gravel that sparkles in the sun, meanders on its course of leisure to the house. An old sundial that’s lost the need for telling time chimes out the odd hours of the day with darkly casted shadows. Arc angels perch between the rows of untended roses, peering out from behind the trunks of vast magnolias, their empty gray eyes tracing the placement of your steps.
And all around you there is quiet. A stillness unperturbed by the cacophony of busy streets and ringing voices. The stone fountain, ringed in hues of mossy green, has lost its moisture and so sits crumbling in silence from the center of the garden. The vegetation, untended, grows wild, reclaiming the home that generations passed have built. Their ghostly presence weaves back and forth, their shadowy forms appear in windows, only to fade away into the same ephemeral fog that hovers closely over the earth. The lace lining of a ball gown brushes up against the floor; the silk fabric of white gloves rests upon the maple banisters that continue on into an endless spiral. The clinking of glasses rings out as the dinner party continues all around you. And amidst the rustling of fabric and the soft tread of slippered feet on hardwood floor, you feel the pull of something that lures you in.
A dark, mysterious calling. Something ancestral. Something ancient. And it begs you to plant your roots in the muddy soil, to drink the rich waters coursing through the marshy grounds, to breathe in deeply of the salted air and run your fingers over the cool moss that clings to the crumbling bark of the great oaks. To lie there, in this little sleepy hollow, still and silent, and surrender. And slowly, ever so slowly as time does run, the moss consumes you, growing with a patient fervor over your damp, creamy skin. And you sink into the swamp, the reeds a pillow for your head, the thick waters cradling your body, and you retire into a slumber so deep it reaches to the depths of earth and time.