The rose was a woven red sun, a bonny thing of inner-light. It envied not the swoop of the birds, for its roots long hugged the earth. It envied neither rabbit nor vole, for its dreams belonged above ground. It envied neither stranger nor friend, for to be a rose was a wondrous thing. How it dreamed night and day of the gayest poetry. All loved the rose and the rose loved all.
The rose was a radiance of red-velvet smiles, softly laughing in the summer breeze. Of her aroma, she gave freely. Of her days, she loved completely, savouring each one. When rain tickled her roots she’d giggle with the innocence of her kind. When the sun shone she’d reach upward to bask and glow. Long stemmed, head full, as if she were dreamed into existence, she was the flower all eyes warmed to.
The chattering brook did coddle the wild roses with tales of merriment. Upon escaping the walled garden, upon outgrowing the gardener’s shears, the blooms bounded into the woodland’s sweet company. Grow! Grow! They sang in choir fashion, yet more as a raucous sea shanty. “Was there ever a floral party so gay, so gay, as where grows the wildest rose? Was there ever a floral party so gay, so gay, as where grows the wildest rose? No! No! Never there was, so let in the wildest rose!”
The rose is a memory, its aroma a time machine. Its transience condenses a poignancy, an urge to savour the moment as the sweetest joy. Built of light and sugar as it is, how could it not be sweet? How could it not whisper-sing of the finest days. It is indeed the bonniest flag of love, it’s standard bearer in the summer breeze. To linger near is to realise a state of once elusive calm. Live in this garden o’rose, rooted deep and strong. Drink the rain and sun the same. Bask in beaming birdsong. Rose, live your days, live well each one.
River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.
River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.
River nibbled the frost bitten field as the last mean straws did rot. Footfalls found no cushioning, yet a jolt of ice-baked land. No tear could fall into winter’s hand, so cold embattled was that site. The sun could rise to full power, ignite every hue to full-bright, and still it would go on in subzero grumble, still it would shun spring’s extended hand. Bitter, so bitter, was the field, and ne’er once did I figure out its sullen rationale.
A wind carved field trickled cold with rain, a rain born of dense dark clouds. Day came and went with barely warmth nor light. Shivering birds weren’t bade to sing. Sheltering mice weren’t called to scurry. The world, it seemed, was shadow’s morose prisoner. Drumming. Drumming. How the rain did keep up its percussive drone. Drown was the pathway. Rotten was the style. Sodden, sogging, soaked through and, of let up, there was none.
The field was braille to the wind, a gust that carried its whispers on. For in its every living thing, from seed to insect or worm, was kept the book of happy happenings. The stars you see, loved it so, and told it fresh stories each sundown. Some say it giggled from dusk until dawn, absorbing wisdom from above. How it wished it could speak into the minds of man. Yet how busy they were. Doing what? It was impossible to tell. Then one day, one blessed day, it grew the seeds so differently. Ha! Ha! This even the minds of man cannot fail to miss!
Whispering wands of grasses, tall and softly green, clothed the warming field. Sweet spring and lady summer were its tailor. Oh, how they adore their embellishing blooms! Oh how they adore their silken aromas! Daily it is our joy to see the changes each brings, how upon such artistic whim arises cornflour and daffodil. Poppies in gayest riot! Buttercups a merry jig! What magic there is in humble things. Oh, those whispering wands of meadows, rolling and sweet, clothed my warming dreams.
In that broken down house, long after the hurricane had passed, the rain-drenched typewriter weeped out its ink. Cold wind blasts went unfelt. Lamenting joist creaks went unanswered. No fresh pages came. No warm hands arrived. No new words sang out. Built tough as it was, tankish in its weight, it wondered if it might outlast the collapsing dwelling, if at least it might see unfiltered daylight one last time.
In that broken down house, long after the hurricane had passed, the rain-drenched typewriter weeped out its ink. Cold wind blasts went unfelt. Lamenting joist creaks went unanswered. No fresh pages came. No warm hands arrived. No new words sang out. Built tough as it was, tankish in its weight, it wondered if it might outlast the collapsing dwelling, if at least it might see unfiltered daylight one last time.
Dust clogged in tattered curtain’s shadow, the typewriter was a lament of days faded to meanest whisper. Once the bastion of the free world, the new sword of the journalist era, it neither lived nor died. Seizing in the stagnant mist, mist that rolled from harbours bare, ‘twas sorest sight, this corpse of a dream that should have lived. Oh my. Oh my. If only it had lived, perhaps the streets would have made it too. Perhaps the curtain would be red-velvet hue.
A buttercup yellow typewriter basked in the midday sun. Its metal and ink both warmed, its keys awaiting their turn to sing. What story would come today? What gallant prose would waltz onto the page? What ideas would morse code out? It passed the pleasant hours regaling to itself stories of yesterdays and yesteryears, of heroic words that changed the world. For one who is asked to choose a weapon and selects the “word” can do as many as seven impossible things before breakfast, or so a clever soul once wrote.
The old typewriter sang out as it composed the lyrics, the beat birthed as it drummed upon a fresh page. Ba-boom. Boom-ba. Ring, zip, ping: went the carriage return. A new line began told in strong black ink. Verity giggled. Who needs a band when you have such a machine! No internet! No distractions! Ba-boom. Boom-ba. Ring, zip, ping! ‘Hack this, hehe. You can’t, can you?’ she mused as she made her writing the right type of infectious joy.
Morose clumps of oily-cloud slicked the sky in oppressive growl. Thunder cared not for meekness. Lightning cared not for calm. And, the rain! Oh, the rain! It fell as icy arrows to marrow and soul. Strike! Strike! On and on it slew. Never a pause. Never a respite. Never a gap for sun-rays to thread through. Wind thought not to lessen. Ground thought not to smooth afoot. No! No! On and on it slew as if to let up was to lose.
Morose clumps of oily-cloud slicked the sky in oppressive growl. Thunder cared not for meekness. Lightning cared not for calm. And, the rain! Oh, the rain! It fell as icy arrows to marrow and soul. Strike! Strike! On and on it slew. Never a pause. Never a respite. Never a gap for sun-rays to thread through. Wind thought not to lessen. Ground thought not to smooth afoot. No! No! On and on it slew as if to let up was to lose.
A grief of clouds hung, draining light to meanest gloom. Rain, thick and fast, pelted in ugly mood. The lament of forest creatures it did drown to less than a garbled and strangled weep. Its hammering was a distress to leaves, a burden to trees, and an onslaught of undeserved bitter pummel. Cold. So cold. Even the air did shiver. Scents abandoned the air as fox from hounds, finding the warmer hug of deep underground. Still it trickled in. Still it leaked. Woe! Woe! Such torrent! Such unforgiving batterings!
A grief of clouds hung, draining light to meanest gloom. Rain, thick and fast, pelted in ugly mood. The lament of forest creatures it did drown to less than a garbled and strangled weep. Its hammering was a distress to leaves, a burden to trees, and an onslaught of undeserved bitter pummel. Cold. So cold. Even the air did shiver. Scents abandoned the air as fox from hounds, finding the warmer hug of deep underground. Still it trickled in. Still it leaked. Woe! Woe! Such torrent! Such unforgiving batterings!
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.
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.
Rain played upon spring blossom as a love song. Streams swelled with heaven’s most happy tears. Earthy hues blushed a deeper brown, singing proud their warmest notes. Water clothed birds made their stand to ring as an acapella choir. Fresher and fresher the aromas cleansed. Time rolled on. Aqua’s orchestra rose to its crescendo. The silver threaded clouds lightened, whitened, dispersing to a lacey sky-net.
Fog erased the smiling twigs. Ice fractured the few brave leaves who clung. Though the sinews of frost-bared trees, only mean shadows weave-whispered. So violent was its arrival, that old man winter blanched to a new gauntness, paled, wan, sickly. For, you see, his snow was the fresh new page, his ice was Earth's transitory stars… This… This… This new coldness was a fore-poisoning of lady spring, an end to the natural cycle of which he was proud to play his part. No! No! All was wrong. It was not winter that would extend… Yet a far more brutal thing.
Denuded twigs whiplashed in the gloom. A battery of clouds sank low and lower still, until they fogged each forest-vista as blindfold. What was cold became freezing. What was aromatic became a lurking malodour. What was dingy became pitch dark. No more the happy chirpings, only fevered rustling hurried to silence itself to nought. The moonlight that had played on the lake silently erased itself. Though the fretting sun was consoled by constellations far and wide, evil declared itself ascended. Had they lost? Was it over?
Clothed in spring rain, the trees were proud with swelling buds. The happy arboreal flock flapped their branches in the warming wind. Their outstretched twiggy hands played with the strengthening light. Between them birds did flitter spring, bouncing wings full wide, singing as if it were their song that commanded winter’s retreat. What was in slow motion gained an exuberant pace. Dally not! Sleep not! Take in lungs of aromatic air! Life abounds! Nature resurgent! Mother Earth, keeper of forests and forest kin, will have her triumphant say!
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