We lie on the meadow, a mid-summer dream,
High above the woods, a large bird soars to the deep blue sky:
we have seen the mark, the proof that she was there,
among us, our dearest ghost…
Photo: Medway valley, ©2014 Honoré Dupuis
Crossing #writephoto
The shallow, clear water runs lazily between the rocks,
and the little islands of green life.
Oft we crossed the old bridge,
On our many walks, through this blessed land,
Observing, and being observed,
by creatures far more ancient, and wiser, than us.
Oft, we looked at our reflections in the mirror below.
Only, now, we only see the light of the sky,
for our images have been erased.
Wave #writephoto
The free fall was the same, every night. There was the sheer terror of destruction, of being shredded on the sharp rocks, so far down, down… But he knew that this was a dream: as dawn came, he would see the light, inhale the scent of the ocean, for there was no fall, and the shore he remembered well: the sound of waves, her smile, their fading steps in the wet sand…
Then the nurse would come, and asked him how he had slept. As ever, he would smile and reply: “I was again on the beach”.
Torn #fivewords
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This was the part he disliked, a role torn from his past, somewhere, far back, as if a trap was slowly closing, as if a fuse was slowly burning…
Picture: Edvard Munch, Vampyr, 1893 – source Wikimedia Commons
Beginnings #writephoto
He knew where they had met, but he was less certain of when that was. He remembered the small town, and the woods, above all the woods, where they walked, kissed, watched the sun rise, the freezing dawns, enlaced, forever at one, with each other, and with the trees.
She was the one, and those were their beginnings. They watched the sun set, the skies on fire. Her grey eyes reflected the light. He had felt so strong then. He was, so they called him. She watched him go, such a breakup in her heart…
Now, after all the death, the sand, the blood, he was back. Alone, at the end, a fallen hero.
Remains #writephoto
He had come to the city, perhaps even unaware, only to write the story. It was about love, of course, or rather loves, lost, found again, unreconciled. That was two years back. The story, like a forgotten symphonie, was now left, unfinished, unpolished, and even, dare we say, unloved.
Something, someone, was missing, he feared he may know what. Somewhere in the unfathomable memories that submerged him, was a woman, the woman. And she, the sombre beauty of his dream, the one he had wanted to write for, was unwilling to belong, to fit in, to submit to his will.
Without her, what remains was a ghost, an empty shell, the faint shadow of what could have been, of what he so wanted to be.
So it was that he had to reignite the fire, and seduce her, again.
Avenue #writephoto
Under the bright green canopy we do not feel the heat of the day, nor do we venture in the full light. You and I merely enjoy the peace, the remoteness from the living. Far away, we hear children playing, perhaps even the notes of a violin, invisible, beyond the orchard.
We have lived nearby, in a house full of memories, ours and many others’, who may have forgotten us. For we have escaped time, as we replay those cherished moments in silence, our puzzled, ethereal ghosts haunting this land forever.
To make her mark #fivewords
The first time she came to this place she knew, there she would make her mark, dream, write, and create him, if she was to never find him. One morning, after she’d moved in, she woke up with a shock, he was there, very close, a few steps away.
Splash #writephoto
We loved the sound of the big stone falling into the clear water, we loved the endless ripples, afterwards, in the little pool. The light reflected on the sharp green ferns, the fresh grass, as the whole nature spelt: Spring!
We were young, we got wet, we looked at our reflections, as if our future would suddenly appear, as the water surface went back to a calm mirror.
Sometime we saw shadows, behind our smiling faces, as if ghosts awaken by the splash had come up to check who dared disturb the peace…
