Spectral #writephoto

Spectral

spectral

 

The old mill stands still, in the frozen landscape; there, they worked, had fun, sometime loved. Now, there is only emptiness, silent stones, pale ghosts recounting long forgotten stories. All round lived once a multitude, poor but hopeful. Children were born, iron was cast, dreams were woven. Why they all left, what was their fate, did they lose faith? We dare not ask the ravens, and shall never know.

Turning #writephoto

Turning

hills

 

Yesterday… We walked in this valley, under the burning sun, hand in hand, believing in the eternal summer. Yesterday, perhaps, more than you, my love, I longed for Autumn, and the fall of leaves. Did I believe Time had stopped? Did I believe Earth was flat, after all?

Or was I inebriated, drunk in our love?

But now, Winter has come, silent, ineluctable: the hills are white with snow, our shoes leave no trace on the frozen ground. Nature has taken back what is hers, the air is cold, yesterday’s azure sky is now deep grey.

The light is out.

Watcher #writephoto

Watcher

waiting

 

The moor already wears its autumn veil, and, soon, we will be home. I know what you will say, when we walk up the hill, towards the place we have chosen for our retreat.

“Look! He’s waiting for us, he’s there, can you see him?”

But I know that only you can see him, that he ever appears only for you, through the ancient mist of long gone times.

For you are his beloved, the one he lost, when the Earth was young, and I, poor mortal, was but dust in a distant star.

And, as always, I will say:

“Yes, I can see him, bless our guardian, the watcher over our fragile spirits…”

I know his tricks… #fivewords

Weekly Writing Prompt #155

Notre Dame Blick nach Westen - Wasserspeier

 

I know his tricks, and I can recognise the face, his, or of one of his “staff“, as he likes to call his minions. I have seen him a few times, in the old city, never in the same guise, even as an attractive person, disappearing at will in the crowd. Always, I heed his moves, his looks, for, sometime, he betrays his goal, his intentions, and reveals who will be his next prey.

Photo: Noter-Dame de Paris, collection privée, Paris in the 30’s.

Circle #writephoto

Circle

circle-of-stones

 

They were six of them, and their leader may have been Galahad. There, they fought, back to back, from one dawn to the next, for days and nights, against the armies of Evil.

There they died, for, then, knights never surrendered. And there, the circle of stones remind us: the battle continues, and they watch us, puzzled, at times amused, more often annoyed. So much effort, for such so small people…

Summer #writephoto

Summer

summer

 

“It looks like cotton…” she said in a calm voice, “Only, there is no-one working here.”

The landscape was quiet, the never disturbed peace of late summer.

“And there is no shadow…” She added, with a sigh. Did she mean “shade”?

He looked up, toward the darker patches of green, beyond the meadow. Small white clouds leisurely walked the sky. He then looked down at his feet. It is then he realised what she had meant: they no longer had shadows…

They must have crossed the border, in this silence, from the land of the living, to the land of memories.

Time had stopped.

 

Track #writephoto

Track

passage

 

The tall trees shelter us from the heat, high above the still green leaves. The path is a ruler, one cannot go wrong. But the woods are silent, nothing stirs, and we know we are observed. Someone, somewhere, is counting our steps, deciphering our minds.

Soon, we will know.

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