Starling feathers in the sky, as if dipped in earthen ink, wrote their tale in aviated calligraphy. They sang in heaven’s key, high above the milling crowds: so free, so merry, so blithe. That day they were my heart-scribes, writing the very essence of my soul, the worth of each mortal beat within my chest. How I treasure the simple memories of that simple day. How I treasure the emotions that bade erstwhile doubts adieu. How I treasure the old me who was lost, yet is now found. In the gentle winds of spring, in the expanse of one breath, my heart was reborn a starling; with my soles upon a quilt of green, as they graced the blue, my wings opened wide.
A pumpkin sun pride-inhaled the sweet autumnal air. To the observant eye it did swell full-large. Its rays were radiant smiles indeed, alighting as golden butterflies that believed us the best of blooms. What would the red-gold leaves be without its blessed light? How could they be painted so gay, so warm, so bright? Early though it was, the day opened up as a highway heading beyond sunset and starry night.
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.
The pen wrote the scars so that they may breathe and heal. It lashed the page with cruel ink so that it may blossom in the light. As bloody tears the ink flowed unclotting. Barbed words eroded in the wind. Toxins dissipated in the rising spring air. Jagged lines learned how to smooth and loop. Its cries reduced to a steady hum, mellow with the promise of skipping beats to come. It was so light upon the palm. It was so warm to the touch. For Ariah it was medicine and friend, that simple thing, the pen.
New-night black was the bicycle, smugly shadow ensconced. Its spokes whispered secrets into a discreet wind. Strain as they might, the words slipped ears grasp, dissipating as easily as an early fog. Tree boughs stooped lower, vainly attempting an eavesdropping. Moles' ears did unplug. Even beetles paused their scurry. Owls, heads askew, puzzled. For all knew the wind was a messenger, a keeper of the code, an encryptor for the fairy folk. And, upon that enchanted thing did ride such a mage, a girl of The Velvet Cloak. Yet should her metal steed be stolen, or otherwise half-inched, a cold dead thing it would be. Magic, you see, is a personal friend, a sense of love from beyond the mortal veil - and this girl was their most treasured one.
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.