Nights of white satin
This calm landscape makes waiting a sweet pleasure: the stillness of the air, the lambs’s voices, the sharp green in the trees. Here you said once you would come back, so I wait here, every year, at the same spot, near the water, looking at the sky’s reflection.
Nothing has changed, the sheep, the trees, the soft grey of the houses. Well, only me, getting older, otherwise, your absence is the same, year after year.
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…
In the morning he could sense the imminent thaw, the passing of the artic air, of nature on her guard. His aim, now, was to lose the dark spirit of winter, find the strength to believe, to resume the dream.
For death, he knew, is not the end of life, but the necessary gate to a new one…
I leave the lutheran bells ringing clear, behind, the sky a dull lead blanket, but soon I see the green shoots: Nature, the knowing lover, is holding them back, in this chilled Sunday morning, as if to moderate our impatience. She knows how to prolong the foreplay, make us wait, nurse our lust, dream of future ecstasies.
The park is silent, even the birds talk in polite, muted voices. A few runners, the dog walkers, I must be the only tramp. The lake lies still, its waters not yet enticing: the beach is deserted, but for a couple of philosophical ducks. An old crucifix stands, alone, reflecting on a better, perhaps even, glorious past. Yesterday’s winds have covered the ground with small, brittle branches, it may rain soon.
The cool bier goes down so well, a not-quite-Spring treat, solitary pleasure. Some youths walk past, so quiet, survivors of some late Saturday’s party. I take my bulk further north, to the limit of the park; on the other side of the motorway lies the airport. The grumble of sparse traffic can be heard, faintly. The sport grounds are busy, with the serious shouts of enthusiastic soccer players. More dogs are entertaining their mistresses, bored, probably wondering about the human mind . The rain has started its cool morning exercise.
There are two small ponds before the street: I am back in Africa now. I follow Afrikanische for a short while, turn left on Transvaal: where else could I walk in a few minutes across thousands of miles? When I cross over Togo, the pavement is shiny with rain. Soon I find Kameruner: I am home. Girls are walking back to their nests, carrying bread.
Back to my space, I carefully recycle the beer bottle. Bless this city, and its inhabitants.
Image: Samuel Araya, via aeszaaesza.tumblr.com
The rain falls over the City, cleansing the ground, rendering a soft glow on the coloured roofs; people walk, attentive, checking their steps to avoid puddles. The sound of traffic is muted, the jackdaws fly higher, in deep reflection. It is as if time was slowing down, as if the City was pausing, observing, maybe wondering what this strange abstract picture of our lives really means: is the past catching up, melting our present into the unfathomable future?
The rain falls, and we become part of the painting, already absorbing the bright colours of Spring.
Image: M.C. Escher, Puddle, 1952. Woodblock print. Via: http://szobel.tumblr.com/
She looked down at the stones, polished by time and covered by ancient lichen: no-one had been around the garden for eons, she was probably the first to find the gate.
Judging by the dead leaves still peppering the ground, it must still be early spring in this world. There was a faint vibration on the surface of the water, as if invisible instruments, deep in the ground, were playing a far away melody. But there was no sound.
She’d escaped from the horror, down under the bridge, and now she was in this lonely spot, feeling that, there, she was safe. A flock of starlings flew high above in the blue sky: beyond the walls, there was life.
Her eyes followed the little stream, encased between the old stones of the path. The crystal clear water was flowing, very slowly, to disappear beyond the wall that seemed to surround the garden.
Then she realised that the gate she’d walked through, a little earlier, was no longer there. Now she felt a presence, silent, observing, maybe curious, from some hidden place behind the stream…
We walk along the high brick wall, the road side covered with snowdrops and daffodils, soon to see the old castle, perched on the hill, surrounded by meadows, ochre stones on blue sky.
Few trees are yet in bloom: this is the time of year when Spring is lurking, not yet triumphant, but already more than a promise.
Soon, we take the narrow lane, bordered with hedges full of busy birds, I am following you, my eyes taking in the beauty of the morning and your supple steps, your curves and the sloping hills in one exalted breath.
Among the crocuses and the primroses we sense hints of more wealth to explore, perhaps a little later, the air is still cold…
In the middle of this landscape I am thinking of all the other places in the world, unhappy, and ravaged by cruelty and greed: what made us so fortunate?
Fractals in the sky, soon Spring will be with us…
The bare branches of a tree, stark against a morning sky. Only had my iPhone with me, which lends some credence to the school of thought that the best camera is the one with you.
Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter.
Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom,
but we hope it, we know it.
– GoetheNow faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
– Hebrews 11:1
Well, I should be reasonably happy with this week: I am very grateful for the encouraging comments received here – thank you to my followers – and while The Page has only made some small incremental progress (but then it’s a long term project!) I managed to write two short stories that will find their way here eventually. Spring is now overcoming the gloom and doom of darkness and I find Spring in England so inspiring… Yesterday I took a few pics on my “walk through suburbia” (see my photoblog and Flickr). I wish all of you a good Friday and then a relaxing week-end.
