Weekly Writing Prompt #175
charcoal, shade, pale, wake, lucid
The rain fell, almost silent, but she could hear the little stream, outside, through the open window. She called the instant the lucid wake: those minutes before the first signs of the pale dawn. Then, everything is clear, the events of the past days in sharp relief, as if lit from inside. His smile, the fire on the beach, the shade under the pine trees, the smell of charcoal. But this wasn’t yesterday, it was years ago, her already distant past. And then it had been Summer…
Then the wine had tasted better, the air cleaner, the waves softer. His skin was like the sun itself. Where was he now? The lucid wake: she was alone, all fires long dead.
She could hear the little stream. Winter would end, another Spring would come.
Image source: https://wallpapersafari.com/winter-beach-scenes-wallpaper/
Weekly Writing Challenge #170
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
Weekly Writing Prompt #154
The thin line
between light and dawn:
the thrill of knowing,
Weekly Writing Challenge #128
Waiting for dawn to break,
A sense of loss –
Cannot move to the light:
or tame Morpheus,
or finish the dream…
Photo: Le grand homme de la nuit, Germaine Richier, © 2017 Honoré Dupuis
The small bird was close to our window: her voice rose high and clear in the light mist shrouding the garden. She was celebrating life and the dawn of a new day, she was saying hope is alive, and look at me: I am small, but I am here, for God is great and I am a small spark of life in His Creation.
So the dark thoughts of the night were dissipated: the ugly sight of a vicious murderer, walking free from a court room, thanking the corrupt judge, and smiling to the hapless “world press”, the thousands of women and children massacred by powerful armies over five continents, the despair of seeing a once great nation protecting the greedy, the torturers, the hordes of trolls masquerading under the symbols of hate and death…
As I write I hesitate to turn on the news. For it is mostly lies and irrelevance. This is not a place for a writer to tread: and it is Sunday, which used to be a day of peace.
Then I think of the small bird: this is a new day, and somewhere the angels are smiling, ready to turn the Devil and his legions to ashes.
Image: Visions from Hell, Paolo Girardi
The low growl of the city, and this feeble light that does not mean dawn: sleep has evaded me.
For I think of you: the multitude, you, who used to count for nothing, but now you do, and they know it.
The future belongs to you, a future full of light, full of hope.
The darkness, still to be defeated, grows weaker, and its cruelty more vicious, but you have much experience of that.
And so morning will come, chasing away the clouds, and the demons.