Upon the wall of earthen reds, illuminating ever essence of hue, was a stripe of bright sunlight.
Upon the brick wall clings the ghost of ivy vines, tracing their pathways as fading scars.
These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy colour bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination.
The wall is red-clay brick, the hue varying from russet to autumnal browns. On this sunny spring day it feels warm to the touch, dry beneath finger tips. It has a roughness that reminds me of rocks upon the beach, the kind made so pretty by the barnacles that cling. The mortar has been there for many-a-year, holding them together as they are, standing tall in any weather. But for me, for today, I'm content to let it take my weight, to feel it support these legs that need a rest day. Today is all about the slowness of time and the chance to let daydreams drift in, so wonderfully silly as they are.
The wall has stood firm since my grandfather's day, yet at only three feet high it has been our picnic place, something to scramble over, to play ball with or hide behind. In the summertime we adorned it with chalk, with every kind of makeshift mosaic until the rain washed it clean once more. He says once there was a house there, that it was a garden wall with sweet-peas and flowers that brought rainbows to mind. Perhaps there will be again someday, perhaps I'll build one there and grow bright flowers to adorn the golden-hued brick.
The brick wall looks as if it were pasted here from the pages of a book rather than built a brick at a time. It rises from the earth, so straight that it startles the eye, the work of a perfectionist no doubt.
Ryan sits upon a brick wall that as been there a century and will last centuries yet. The cinnamon clay shows the signs of weathering, a wear that renders it all the more beautiful, more at ease in these hills.
I stood by that ancient wall, my eyes absorbed by the pathway of the mortar, in awe at the strength by which it holds onto its beloved bricks. As centuries yawned by it stood with these any-weather cemented bonds.