I listen to the sound of the cascade, and to the birds and other creatures, deep in the woods. Time flows, as if diluted in the icy waters of the stream. Is it an illusion? Or the harsh reality of our impermanence? Will I remember this instant, on the other side, beyond time, when I myself have returned to the primordial dust? Or is there nothing, just the blank canvas of another story, as yet to be written?
It’s a narrow stream, on this side our present, on the other, the past, or an unknown future. What to chose? Staying here, where we are now, is not an option: sooner or later, but maybe much sooner, we have to step on those stones, make up our mind, and chose.
We have to be cautious, the stones are slippery, a wrong move, we may end up in a past where we are lost, or even worse: in a future where we are enslaved.
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.
She could tell from his footsteps, along the stream.
There he’d stopped, listening to the water, and to the birds.
He may even have spotted a kingfisher.
At a slow pace she followed his journey, up to the cliff.
There, she knew, the show was over.
“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.
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
She filled her lungs with the fresh, pure air of the forest. At her feet the little stream flowed, silent, mirroring the foliage of the trees and the clear sky. The entrances of the tunnels were surrounded by lush vegetation.
Her feet were in the water, a delightful feeling, and the sun was warm on her skin. She felt revived, born again. She’d never felt so close to the ancient world, soon she would know whether the prediction was right: she only had to follow the stream and starts her journey between the ancient walls…
Still she had a choice to make: there were two entrances, and she knew they did not both lead to the temple. The oracle had said she would know which one to chose. She looked up beyond the green canopy, some creature had stirred high above, hidden from view. Then she saw the little bat, who quickly disappeared through one of the arches…
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…
The declining sunlight casts long shadows on the meadows, trees and rocks magically elongated over the sensual curves of the valley.
The little cross is hidden from view, not far from our path, but few walkers know it is there.
It’s almost our secret, a tiny haven nestled at the foot of the magic mountain, a special place: we belong there.
We can hear the small stream, running through the pine trees, as you turn your beloved face towards me, the green eyes I worship, deep into my lost soul, as images of our fall flash through my mind, and yours.
There, high above the valley, is the vertical cliff where you last kissed me, before our death: we haunt this place, and only the spirits will ever know.
