Here is my next creative piece for literature. It is based on D. H. Lawrence's short stories The Fox/The Captain's Doll/The Ladybird. They are all based on time around the war and how people were effected by the first world war. He bases his stories mostly around women and their role amongst a man-driven society. Please tell me what you think, feedback is key.
Scots PineNineteen ten.
Dirty hands wiped down her blouse, she runs inside.
A small tree sprouts from the yard, a Scots pine.
Delicate, piercing leaves of green, it breathes.
Thin brown trunk holds straight and strong, it is impenetrable.
So young and naïve yet very in love, with a tree.
Starts as small as she is tall, just ten years old.
Her father, a miner, pats her shoulder. True love.
“You are my pine, my young Alese”, their eyes glisten.
Nineteen fifteen.
Tears flow down her cheeks in waves, she weeps.
Her father leaves to fight the war, with guns.
Life is dark as night in winter, when unbearable.
She runs outside to her pine tree, she weeps.
Larger than it was before, a dismal brown.
Then air flows through singing sweetly, melodious.
Nightmares loom as darkness falls, gunshots.
Gunshots. Gunshots.
A villager cycles to her door, and hands her a letter.
Her town is occupied by English soldiers, the enemy.
One by one, they come for shelter, day by day.
None of which have attractive eyes, or needed strength.
Nineteen eighteen.
He arrived at her door on her eighteenth birthday, he’s unexpected.
“May I stay in your home, it is cold outside,” he spoke in English.
He’s voice was melodious like a tree song, she was spellbound.
His figure was slender, yet sturdy and strong, fair skinned.
Glossy dark eyes penetrate her own dark blue, she lets him in.
“Danke, uh, you are very kind. Your house is sweet.” She is his.
In bed her nightmares reoccur, she screams.
Gunshots. Gunshots.
The English soldier appears at her door, she wakes in dream.
“Be calm my beauty, my German beauty,” like a song.
He touches her dark, soft skin, she shivers.
His hand slides down from broad shoulder to curved waist. She is limp.
He runs his fingers through her dark blonde hair, and kisses her neck.
“I be yours,” she says in English, he laughs quickly.
One morning she wakes and he is gone, no sign.
No letter is left, he’s belongings disappear, and she weeps again.
She takes the axe from her fathers shed and runs outside.
Sturdy legs planted strong, a furious swing.
The tree falls down; she crumbles down, out of breath.
She wanted death but then she stopped, she felt a kick.
Nineteen twenty.
Hand in hand, woman and baby, plant a small tree. A Scots pine.
“I promise my sweet, never to leave you,” she whispered in his ear.
“The war, it changes men and plants.” Wind blows.
She takes him inside to warm his feet, at the window.
The tree it breathes once again, she breathes.
His eyes are dark and skin is fair, soft dark blonde hair.
Her eyes, they glisten once again. True love.
No more dreams of war and misery, of gunshots.
Gunshots. Gunshots.
