The nascent rays, pulsing through freshly clothed trees, are my heartbeat drum. How these ever-morphing puzzle pieces, playing so lightly, are a playful kind of warmth. Though they begin at my skin, in one breath they arrive in my marrow. And so, amid the bluebells and earned aromas, amid the chattering of birds, the new day is well underway.
In a light that dapple danced, bounced a beach ball. Down the pathway it wandered with the gait of a happy child, a bounce and a skip here and there. At one time it paused as if to listen to the song of the early birds, to turn a pirouette, yet beyond that it seemed to have a determination to be a ball immune to gravity. I sat there, my pyjamas billowing in the spring air, my brain all of a tickle with new ideas.
A mottle of baby blue and white, blended to fashion my favourite morning grey, adorned the newborn sky.
In morning there is more joy in the part of me that peeks through the windows of my eyes. In the morning there is more love awaiting a chance to jump into the air in that silent crackle we sense with our soul. In the morning there is more deep sweetness that resonates within and finds a way to express this energy that is me.
In the wash of the new light, your face takes on the appearance of an old photograph, one of nostalgia, so beautiful. I watch as it brings your skin into focus, not yet animated with the warmth of who you are, for you are still in the land of dreams. And since there is no better thing to do but to bring my body so close that our hearts synchronise, I'll hug you till you wake, when the light is so strong that you come into the present with me, eyes open.
The curtains add an orange glow to the morning light, every morning a perfect sunrise. It reminds Haydon of of the times he slept in a beach hut, watching the ocean emerge under the golden shimmer. For a moment his mind conjures the rhythmic waves, soft on the sandy shore and feels his heart beat to the same slow pace. He breaths in deeply. A new day has begun. He reaches his had out to the fabric, noticing how up close the light pours through every open space between fibres, no different from how it once came through the beach-hut walls, illuminating like brilliant fire-flies each dawn. The material is warm beneath his fingers, and when the sun floods the room, painting the colours anew, he feels a little of those golden rays soak into his skin.
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