Bleakest night laced itself with a frigid wind, a frigid wind threading intricate wire loops. Upon it was borne an impugning moan of curdling audacity. Cry! Cry! So it went on! Such a cruel limping immorality! As a faithful servant of winter’s seal the howl sublimated its passions, for a deft hand ‘twas it in creation of pretty snow and ice; so much delight did it bring. Yet on this most cold of days, ere nightfall was in full-flow, we fled down the cobbled street. We fled fleece-wrapped and sought sanctuary with faithful kith and kin.
In the spring air my soul did repose as if butterfly-borne, borne by as many as Brighton beach has stones. The city breeze was a briny-bluster, yet the kind that elevates. The traffic lulled and surged as if caught in gentlest lunar-gravity. Then, as a kindling star, newborn in a nebular, a lyric sparked into life, lighting up my chest, lighting up my heart. My soles pounded the concrete pavement, the streets passed in a blur. To the birds that sung upon my route, the ones I noticed not, apologies! Deep apologies! Yet an idea-galaxy does not wait.
Autumnal rain was summer's envelope, sealing her safely in until her time returned. Do not open until mid June sings. Do not open until mid June stretches her wings. Quenched forest earth opened wide brown arms. Quenched trees took their fill. Fish swam in liberated arcs, sensing the cleaner flow. Though cooler were the promised days, announced by the glossy reds and golds above, the drumming of the raindrops was heart-music far and wide.
Firelight was holding parlance with the living room. A flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and light giggle-chattered on. Crackle and spark. Crackle and spark. The carriage clock ticked merrily on. Whispers of smoke wood-fragranced each breath. To this hearth-side scene, this place of soulful rest, autumnal boughs were its audience; for as the November sun surrendered to its scheduled slumber, ‘twas a square of warm golden light as inviting as any other.
The pulse of her tender wings, the butterfly, and my heart-beat were as one - solemn and lamenting. Each of us were near-silent. Each of us were near-frozen. Each of us were alone and together in the humid moment; for the air was bloated, heavy and close. It was a gloomy saturation. Lady light, it seemed, had forgotten her warm-lit songs and instead found the skin in cool bluish rays. Even the floral scent was sunken, though I cannot fathom how. In all of this, as companion and barometer, sat the butterfly. What I felt, she felt it too, those paper-wings cannot lie.
Stars, as open doorways, illuminated a camelot sky; for the romance of antiquity was abroad in the wide avenues. Of fog, there was none; of wind, the same. Yet, still and calm, in a night of serenest tranquility, I saw them eddy as if in Van Gogh’s masterpiece. My eyes dreamed their way up to the heavenly light, to an angel’s abode. With my soles planted firmly on the ground, and my head so much higher than any cloud, I felt titan-tall, how could I not?