Budding Hope

February 28, 2011

Budding Hope

There was sun before the rain, yesterday. For a moment I thought the rain would sweep me away. Then came the night. This morning it was bitterly cold. A cherry tree blushed into bloom. I think spring is to come, and hope is in bud. I breathe on it at times, to keep it warm. I’m waiting. Waiting still.

Breathless

February 28, 2011

Deer on Hayling !?!
Image by Paranoid Black Jack on Flickr.

There was frost in the grass, the cold nibbling her fingers, making them blush and ache, as if pins were pricking them, shedding blood. A silver sliver escaped her parted lips, her breath a ghost disappearing into the unknown.

She was waiting.

Under a distant tree, far afield, lay blushing spheres, their rotting flesh spreading intoxicating fumes. Soft and sickly sweet, their whispers travelled silently, waving, luring, urging, for creatures to follow them to certain death.

Slowly fiddling with a thread spun from spider’s silk she was waiting for her prey. The sun rose, melted the frost and turned it to dew rising as misty clouds, wisping in the morning air. She was breathless; the slightest sound and her wait would be in vain.

Tentatively and with great reserve her prey emerged from the woods. Ears erect and with nostrils flared, scanning the world for predators thirsting for their blood. Each step was made as on glass, a foot set down, withdrawn, shiveringly replaced. They inched forward, lured by the succulence saturating the air.

Her heart was beating, the silk twirled round her fingers. Hands shivering with suspense, she watched the creatures draw ever nearer her irresistible trap.

The cider from the fermented fruit moistened their coat as they feasted on her bait. There was a premature twitch in the silk, and within a second they were all gone. Their silver breath faded slowly, tracing their path.

She twirled the silk hard round her fingers, turning them blue. All that wait for nothing. And it was all her fault.

Recovery

February 27, 2011

Texture

I feel better now, having done what I wanted to do. One’s heart speaks true; others cannot know. Even if it was foolish, it was best for me. I feel better now. I can recover; face another week.

Spectator

February 27, 2011

Modeling duck
Image by Zach Bonnell on Flickr.

It’s raining rivers and my street is a pond. A mallard is watching me from afar, through the curtain rain. I feel invisible, like glass. That stare; the bird isn’t blinking. It’s still. As if it knows all the secrets I hide.

Tussilago

February 26, 2011

Golden Tussilago

I found Tussilago by the water’s edge. All is well now, on the surface. The clock is ticking in the silence. I wonder if everything I do is wrong.

It’s Raining

February 26, 2011

Rain and birds
Image by Zinius on Flickr.

It’s raining, but the dams protecting my emotions are still whole. Far up in the mountains, upon the snow-covered peaks there was a downpour. I don’t think it was snow; it feels harsher than that. I think it was rain; droplets of water that fell from silver skies, pouring off the sides of the mountains and down onto the valleys below. I think my dams are about to burst, the water wants to flow, down, down, down and seep into the ground that hasn’t been watered for so long.

Water is very different from everything else. It is. And still it is not. If I stick my fingers into it I can feel that it is wet; I can feel its watery lips gently caress and kiss my skin. But what is the feeling of water; is there any such thing? What if water is an illusion, very much like life, and me, myself?

I am overcome with emotion; there’s a storm brewing inside. I’m fumbling in the dark and everyone is waiting for me to fall. They support me, but they don’t do it will all of their heart. They think I’m insane, that I’m crazy, that I’m mad. maybe I am, but the storm pushes me forward. It feels so right, yet I know there can only be pain in the end.

But all addicts are addicted to their drug, that’s why they can’t stop. There’s this ecstasy of taking it, and no abyss can deter them from taking it again. And still it hurts, and it feels so good. And all you want is for it to go away. But when you see it leave, you freak, you cry, because you don’t want to lose it. So you catch it again, caress it and kiss it and say you’ll never part.

Life is torture, but feeling nothing at all would be death.

And still, hidden among the raging clouds that obscure the snow-covered fells, I know that there is hope. It’s tangible. But maybe it is because I want it to be. Maybe it’s a bird of hope that’s made of glass. When I touch it it’s going to break, because it was made for hands that aren’t mine.

I shiver, because I don’t want to see that bird of hope flying among the raging clouds. I don’t want to see it, because if I ever catch it, how can I know it will not break?

It’s raining. And I’m still here.