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Two Works by G.M. Rouse

"Newstead Abbey"

© 2007 G.M. Rouse



The Abbey




G.M. Rouse



It was late one dismal evening,

The sky wept upon the glass

And cast down shards of sharpened ice

To cool its aching heart,

And I must bathe before the fire –

Let the waters douse my sin,

And wash the dirty crimes of passion

From my waxen, scar-streaked skin –

And give up all thoughts of loving

Those without the heart to love,

For I'm already soaked and shivering,

Drenched in heartache from above

In the leaden and well-trodden clouds

Where the angels weep with loss,

And despair at their own painful hearts

Upon the ivy, oak and moss

That grow in shadows and in rainfall

From the grey stone of my home,

Given comfort only by the moorhen

And the thunder's dusky moan

That shivers softly through the dead sky –

And strikes silver on the rain –

For one brief echo of desire

'Till they're left to grieve again.


G.M. ROUSE shares...

G.M. ROUSE was brought up in the southeast of England, but now lives in a cottage between the mountains and the rain on the coast of northwest Wales. She moved there eight years ago to study for a degree in English with Creative Writing, and has since inherited a boyfriend and three cats that now live in the wilderness with her, and keep her from going even further out of her mind. Although she writes predominantly poetry, she also turns her hand to prose and even songs from time to time, and is never far from other people who are easily bullied into working on an assortment of hair-brained schemes.


"Heartache is a funny thing. It affects us all in very different ways...

Several years ago, I was fortunate enough to visit Newstead Abbey in Nottingham on a very wet and miserable afternoon in March, and since then, it has come to represent extreme feelings of despondency and ennui to me. It is a place where people sit in the library in front of an open fire, and rest their cheek against the glass while they look out of the window at the rain falling on the terrace. That is the kind of feeling I was trying to capture here: the kind of dull, colourless sort of pain that comes when all the shouting and floods of tears have passed, and the slow acceptance that something beautiful is over is just beginning to set in."