The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
We bathed in the summer wind, feeling it eddy-hug all that we are. Our bare arms were its pianos as it played keys in soft casades. Of wintry wind, it bore no resemblance. Of ice, it carried none. Instead, with fragrant notes that swirled, with the patience of aeons and love’s everlasting hope, it serenaded to the angel within.
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.
As a giggle of spokes and beams, the bicycle traversed the shadow road and bounded up the polka-daisy incline. As a steady steed it momentum-galloped, chain at maximum torque, summing the preceding downhill with its rider’s anticipatory glee. Tyres as black ferris-wheels turned. Its suspension rendered bumps smoother than a merry-go-round horse. Then upon the lit brow, prettiest panorama all around, it absorbed the joy of the inhaling second. Ariah gave it a pat-pat before alighting to dream beneath summer-clothed boughs, ensconcing herself upon a grass cushion, her notebook and pen at the ready.
The bitter wind was a cadaver hand, pressing blue faces as television controls. It froze eyes of every hue, forming icy cataracts. Between handsome cascades of snow and hail, it distinguished not. Any weapon, it seemed, would do. Slew! Slew! The gale whipped each to sting at the most callous of slants. Only a fool would beg for mercy instead of seeking castle's respite.
“One thing an ocean of caviar will teach you,” said Bruce, “is that those fish eggs belong to the water. The finest things in life can’t be bought and sold, enjoyable though they can be. Give me a mansion without love and I have nothing. Yet still, I would not live in a hovel. I would not dwell in the dirt and cold for the sake of appearing humble. So, what I’m saying is, heroes suffer more than most; that’s part of this way of living. So, take the good times when they come and let them warm your soul, ignite your smile and bring your feet to a merry dance. Yet these trappings of wealth are but chains and locks.”