Widerstand

Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

After Winter, Spring will come. Remember: our ancestors knew of far worse times, starvation, wars, plague – the real one – when darkness came over the world. They resisted, often silent, always with hope in their heart.

Don’t lose hope: the seeds are there, there will be Spring, goodwill, and peace.

Guardian #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

watchers

 

I am waiting. I know you will come, when does not matter to me: I am old, and patient.

When you arrive, I will be ready. Maybe, by then, you will be wiser. If not, woe to you.

You may think that, after those eons, I should have forgotten. Poor you. I forget nothing, ever. Besides, I know your sort: the species that believes they can trample the spring flowers, anywhere, regardless, as if it was their home. It isn’t.

Lack of respect, I call it. Well, respect you shall learn, the hard way.

For there is a guardian on these shores, unforgiving, immortal.

Bells #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

blue

 

“This brings back memories…”

“Do you mean when we were young?”

“O yes, younger in any case, and then so was the world…”

“If I were bue…”

“like Edward Hopper’s afternoon

lift the sash to air the breeze

let my summer flush your cheek

lie supine beneath the soft and gentle season…”

 

On the streets #Berlin #January

Image-uploaded-from-iOS4-1024x614

 

Still remnants of the past Sylvester

and dead Christmas trees

litter the streets,

grey the walls,

sad the dogs,

only the crows find cause to rejoice.

Sparrows sing, in the cold bushes.

The city, lost in a dream,

lets the clowns speak, 

ignores the lies:

she’s heard many others.

Yet Spring will come,

and the Sun will shine again on Mauerweg.

 

Image source

Angel #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

christmas

 

You raised your arms, the dove looks about to fly away. The world is at peace, your smile reassures all of us. The small flame vacillates, one short instant. The warm light plays in your hair. How we admire your face, the beautiful eyes that greet all of us.

For we are afraid, and seek your protection. The donkey looks at you, just to make sure you understood: your people need you.

Onward #writephoto

Onward

p1460213-2

 

We stop at the top of the small hill, and look down at the road meandering away from us. The bikes lie on the short grass, next to tall poles that remind us that, here, the snow can erase everything, and level the landscape, but we are too early for it. The air is cold, the pale rays of the winter sun lit the distant crags. Soon the night will fall. We set the tent not far from here, and lit a fire. Tomorrow is another day.

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.

Magic #writephoto

Magic

leafless

 

“So much light,” you said, “and here is the path, just across the little stream, do you remember?”

I do remember, we walked there, many times, you and me, when we were kids, and later. In all seasons, in winter like this, with sunlight filtering through the trees, reflecting on the snow, our hands in mittens, in spring, our hearts feeling the change in the air, the sounds of birds, and in the long summer evenings…

But it’s late autumn I remember most, the late season when the wind gets colder, when dark clouds gather above the forest. And then, that year…

And then winter was with us, so fast, and one late afternoon, just like this, you kissed me. You did, and I was taken aback, perhaps even a little frightened. Your golden hair, your red lips… It was there, near the stream, never had I had felt such fire in my soul…

We are old now. The fire still burns in our hearts. The forest is still there, and the sun, reflected on the snow.  We walk, hand in hand, listening to the light noises of nature falling asleep.