As they prepared to leave and go home – a long way away – they started fantasising… There would be an island, a secret garden, a view over the old church, new colours and space for dreaming and loving. Perhaps even a shortcut to the lake from their porch?
They would have to invent a way to travel easily to the island, and there build a shelter. But would a shelter be needed? Wasn’t their place already basking in an eternal summer?
“So we are back”, you said in a tone of voice void of emotions. But I knew better: “back” meant we had failed, together, to adapt to a different life, to create the new, to be reborn. Yet this was our home, the naked ground where we belonged. Even the barren trees were part of us, a befitting reminder of the winter of our souls.
“We’ll find a ruin somewhere, do it up, settle down…” I added, hopeful.
“I love those clouds, and then I am here, still, with you!” You replied with a smile, “I thought we should never regret a failure, the important thing, was to have tried.”
“I knew you would understand,” I said, fixing you, as you were reaching for my hand, “Together we are strong, as strong as ever.”
Once we walked along this shore, through these dunes, you and I, hand in hand, when the world was young.
Now, our children stand tall and strong, and they and their mates look just like us, as we were.
So you see, dear love, despite all the mistakes, sometime the doubts, we saw through our future with much clarity, as the waves told us we would, once, there, along this shore, long ago.
velvet, cloud, hippie
Late in the day, emerging from his grass cloud, the ageing hippie saw you, asleep, as you once were, on the velvet pastel of the pool.
Today’s prompt: filter, keepsake, salad
The apartment is so empty, the sky so low, the morning so quiet. Near the coffee machine, behind the filter box, I have hidden a keepsake of her presence, here, one summer night.
I look at that bit of silk, black, introvert, provocative. Tender was that night, and I made her such a lovely salad!
Winter is not over, still plenty of time to dream…
Image: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_wzBJE0rOk
A late dream,
Don’t I know what to expect!
The storm must have woken me,
And you, dear angel,
Are still fast asleep…
Yet I know: the Enemy and his minions strike before dawn,
Hiding their hideous shapes
Behind the windows’ frames…
I wrap myself in your gown,
And swear at them.
Picture: from this fantastic site: http://darkdreams.centerblog.net/1396-les-nagas
The small stream is known to local children, and to the occasional wanderers. For us, I know, it has meaning, one of the places where our spirits shall meet, and remember the past. We once ran over those rocks, splashing each other, in the bright light of Spring. Then, we were happy, we were young, and little did we know about the fate that awaited us. I recall your blond hair, flying in the wind, your little blue dress, your bare feet that seemed to fly over the water.
I remember the day I left, for those far away shores, I remember the sand in the desert, death at every step. I – or rather the poor ghost I became – remember the day I died, alone in a narrow street, in a faraway alien city. I remember not finding you, anywhere, until I visited the small churchyard, not too far from our stream. And now, every Spring, I come here and wait for you. I have time, I have all eternity. I know you will not remain hidden forever.
Dedicated to those who left, and never came back.
“Beyond those hills is our home”, he said softly to her ear, as they looked down the valley, toward the estuary. There the town was cradled, a thin glimmer of light against the darkness.
She shivered a little, but not from cold. She thought again of the place, the wild garden, the old walls. No-one had been there for ages. She could already hear the front door creak. Who would notice their return?
“I will look on as you fall asleep, I will wait for as long as it takes.” His voice so low only her could hear his words. She smiled, of course he will look after her, as he had done for all those years, as they roamed the world, away, so far away from home.
“We haven’t been near humans for a while…” she said, as she leaned against him.
“I know,” he replied softly, “we just hear them, they ignore us and will continue to ignore us. For them we are a flutter of fine dust, a tiny vortex in the air…”
We love the long walks, along the shore, the closeness of the sea, the flying birds, the wet land and the immense skies. I watch your steps, the wind blowing your hair, I see you as one with the earth, the waves, the clouds.
I know we will be tired at the end of the day, and yet, we stop and watch: the reeds spelling their ancient story, the cries of seagulls, the bright colours of sand poppies.
For we know: once, long ago, we came from the sea, and our footprints in the wet sand just remind us of that long love story.
“This is exactly how I remembered the mausoleum,” she told him, as they crossed the immaculate lawn. “The trees are a lot taller… so many years have passed since our parents used to come here with us kids…”
“I no longer know whose statue it is,” replied her brother, “I just know we liked running around it, pretending that above the steps we were safe from the monsters, down in the woods!”
“You can see, the park is a lot smaller than in our memories! Then, we imagined all sorts of creatures living in the deep jungle, beyond our sanctuary…”
“… And now, now we know that there is no amazing creature, just us, and the birds, perhaps even a few squirrels!”
They smiled at each other, a very old couple revisiting their childhood.
