From high altitude the lake was a blue spot in endless mountain grey-greens; yet, with feet on the ground, it was a poet’s daydream. The air was a hum of dragonflies, the grass a riot of asters and, in a wide arcing circle, grew softly waving evergreens. In the seasons of ambient air, the fragrance of that valley was a timeless fingerprint. It spoke of days centuries past in the same whisper as future’s promise. It was our sanity, that place, in a world of mad-hatters.
A smile of trees greeted us upon the avenue, for our new street arced into an easy grin. So jubilant were they, arboreal limbs locked into a victory pulse, as if ‘team-tree’ had won the world cup. It appeared too, that no-one had told the flowers of the heat and drought. There they were, bonny petals waving as the brightest of flags, growing from every pavement crack.
Summer days sail in as a triumphant dawn fishing fleet, with that warming sense of nurture and sun rays.
Summer days open as the letter of a lover, warm words of light radiating onto welcoming skin.
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