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.
A clock of austere countenance snubs its nose at gravity, perching upon a crude nail as if it were a plinth of rock. In the dusty grim, behind curtains sewn shut, each second drips as miserly metered tears. Each ruthless clang-sob leads its silent apostle, only to self erase, to dissipate, to surrender to the next. Each ruthless clang-sob announces itself as the newest word for pain, the newest name of the newest newborn. This ever open eye blinded itself, witnessed not, spoke not, of what was plain to see. This eye, you see, was the faithful servant of the obscurantism that birthed it and hung it on the wall.
Anna and her bicycle were at their phlegmatic best as they swooped down the crumbling, grumbling path. 'You bounce too heavy! You strike too hard! You cumbersome imbecile! You metallic monster! Shoo! Shoo!' Of reply, neither Anna nor her steed made one. Impervious were they upon this most joyous day. The happy wheels gaily spun. The arc welded frame remained tank-strong. Its cherry gloss shone in the advancing dayshine. At times she trilled it's bell as sparky percussion to birdsong. At the anticipated fork it bid the curmudgeon track adieu and paid it no more mind.
The clock, arms wide at ten and two, was the happiest of goalkeepers. It was the galant keeper of time, a defender of saunter, neither speeding nor slowing. Though some thought it nonchalant, even phlegmatic, it was the bringer of newborn nights at the seal of each day. It ensured that each star was cosy in a blanket of pure black. It watched with its ever open eye. Then, come the morrow, the ignition of dayshine, it kept its rhythm as steady as a heroic heart. Tickerty-tick. Tickerty-tick. Steady and true. Tickerty-tick. Tickerty-tick.
A loquacious breeze, all a-chitter chatter, its infinite words a most merry amorphous blur, arrived on the first day of spring. Jocund it was, warm and gay, spritely, air pirouettes spun with grace. The new aromas of buds, of foliage and petals too, it bore as a happy task, an honour bestowed to few and accepted with robust humility. Yet it would not be a somber thing, this bringer of sweet scent, yet a gregarious jester of unspoken largesse.
Slanting rain, volleys of icy spears, slice through milky baby's breath. Oblivious puffs arise to punctuate her newborn dreams, dreams that converse with wisdom-bruised stars. Drumming. Drumming. The rain bolts down. Striking, striking, hard enough to rebound. Dirty streets stutter clean within smog's tidal wash. Street-lamps blink on with a golden flood. How we wished for that glow to foreshadow any fireside hearth.