Tranquil #writephoto

Thursday photo prompt

tranquil

 

“What am I for you?”

I heard the question, almost a whisper, but I thought I was alone. I knew this corner of the lake well, a favourite for poets and lovers in the summer. I looked around, quietness and tranquillity, the surface of the water reflected the foliage…

“I know you heard me, don’t pretend!”

The voice was clear, a little high pitched, the voice, I imagined, of a mermaid, or perhaps of the Lorelei. But for sure that of a woman. It was getting warm, I fancied the coolness of the lake. I dropped my running shoes, shorts and top, no-one would object to nudity at this time in the morning. The sand was warm, the shallow water delicious on my skin. I knew there was a sharp decline and depth in front of me, hundred yards or so from the edge.

Once the water reached my shoulders I swam, it was a delight. I would get closer to the centre of the lake, then turn round. I had set out to run for another hour.

“I love to see you getting closer…”

Indeed this time the voice was close, I thought next to me. So sweet. I could almost see her, her reflection perhaps from an older dream?

“So, tell me now, what am I for you?”

I could not answer her question. The depth of the lake attracted me. I felt as one with the water, the light, her voice. So deep was the lake, so enticing her words…

Confession of a Summer Agnostic #fivewords

Weekly Writing Prompt #159

herbst-regen-9f928b49-9b03-4f00-945d-b50377f60402

 

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

Summer #writephoto

Summer

summer

 

“It looks like cotton…” she said in a calm voice, “Only, there is no-one working here.”

The landscape was quiet, the never disturbed peace of late summer.

“And there is no shadow…” She added, with a sigh. Did she mean “shade”?

He looked up, toward the darker patches of green, beyond the meadow. Small white clouds leisurely walked the sky. He then looked down at his feet. It is then he realised what she had meant: they no longer had shadows…

They must have crossed the border, in this silence, from the land of the living, to the land of memories.

Time had stopped.

 

Track #writephoto

Track

passage

 

The tall trees shelter us from the heat, high above the still green leaves. The path is a ruler, one cannot go wrong. But the woods are silent, nothing stirs, and we know we are observed. Someone, somewhere, is counting our steps, deciphering our minds.

Soon, we will know.

Between #writephoto

Between

between

 

It was a wonderful day, walking along the ancient path, through the beloved hills. Closer to the village, a helpful farmer had left the way clear, in the middle of the fields of colza. The scent of the crop was strong in the cool air. They stopped, looking at each other.

“We will remember this instant of peace,” she said slowly, “when winter is back, and the ground is frozen…”

He smiled, and took her hand. “Not that long ago, I remember climbing that hill in the snow… And it must have been with you!” They laughed.