Nights of white satin
It is not so far, where we met for the first time, when we were incredibly young, and so ignorant.
Not so far in distance from here, but in time, we dare not say. We know, much have changed around us, everywhere.
Except us.
Wiser we are, and so much stronger.
We’ve lost tracks of all those years, for we live for the present: ghosts we might be, but the happy sort,
as we have each other, for evermore.
We listen to the crystal melody of the waterfall. Sun rays bounce off the glistening rocks. Is this a dream, or are we there? There, in the valley we cherish, where, in the sharp, icy air of dawn, our young souls met, one Spring.
It’s not a dream, but it is only a picture. So, my dearest love, we have to wait, for our ghostly shadows to find a way back, there, near the waterfall.
I confess I have never been a sun worshipper. Red meat on a dry rack, sorry, beach, does not inspire me. Perhaps is it a question of name? Summer, Sommer, sommaire, echoes of summary… Execution? I long for Autumn, for the fresh smell of wet ground, for the scent of pine trees, at last drinking the dawn dew. I love the way the temperature drops at night… sweet dreams.
I long for the rain, for the gift of rain, falling on the parched earth, for the sound of rain drops on the lake. Solace.
Photo: Herbst Regen, source
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…”
The enemy breached the walls: in a few hours the virus spread, and a deep change set in. I can’t breath, nor think clearly. I know today is first day of Autumn, the trees colours have been changing for a while. Have we had a real summer? This is the time to go back to serious writing, but it will have to wait: reconquest. It will take time.
Already we have to plan the next trip, this time by road. Is it wise? Feeling drained, only sleep seems to help…
So much to do…
Picture: Gustav Klimt, Beech Grove, 1902
Galerie Neue Meister, Dresden, via sulphuriclike
From the exquisite crew
We look out on the street, the scenery of everyday, ever changing, never fading. Autumn is there, palpable, in the leaves blown across the sidewalks, in the colours of the trees, in the chill in the air. Slowly, implacably, the city changes to its winter clothes.
You and I are waiting, loving, reading, light jazz floating through the rooms. Soon the chill will turn to ice, us too will wear our winter coats.
We love the city, we will never stop waiting.
Image: Glas und Metal, Berlin , September 2016 – via jasminmeyer
