A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
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.
The bicycle by gravest twilight lay abandoned on soggy ground, wheels creak-spinning as a weather-vane. A grief of clouds lingered low and black to earth so freshly scarred. Derailleur clogged, tyres thorn struck, it wheezed-breathed a dying pulse, flat tyres lined the ground. Wind wailed. Lightning shocked. Yet the rider, she was gone. Footsteps under heavy rain did vanish, all scents likewise the same. He crouched low to its pseudo-living frame, his heart pleading for a miracle, a clue, a murmur from sweet providence.
Rain slew in drumming waves, relentless, cold, thick. Though devoid of winter’s sting, the rain that spring was only handsome in its unabashed misery. The sun skulked behind cloud’s tumult, the hazy havoc of the skies, snubbing newborn lambs and calves who promptly theron shivered, shook and died. And, lof the flowers that rose as the very flags of optimism, ne’er a one escaped the drubbing; all were beaten into the dirt, ne’er a one survived.
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.
Firelight was holding parlance with the living room. A flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and light giggle-chattered on. Crackle and spark. Crackle and spark. The carriage clock ticked merrily on. Whispers of smoke wood-fragranced each breath. To this hearth-side scene, this place of soulful rest, autumnal boughs were its audience; for as the November sun surrendered to its scheduled slumber, ‘twas a square of warm golden light as inviting as any other.