Finally got around to writing this down, for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.
The alley of beech trees bows and whispers though there is no wind. They are slender and lithe though the guidebooks claim they are hundreds of years old. The house at the end of the alley too has not much of the aspect of the original, but suffers from the ‘improvements’ of a Victorian industrialist.
Only on light summer nights, when the nightingales fill the trees with music for whoever will listen, does the place appear in its true light. Its true light is shimmering moonlight that falls at a particular angle, so that even our city-smoked eyes can see behind the façade of frothing brick and mock battlements, along the alley of bowing beech trees.
On one particular summer’s night, the eye can see the elegant golden stone, silvered by the moon, the rose bowers and lovers’ nooks, and the double rank of dancers in their silks and lace. The moon shines on the silver buckles of their shoes and the diamonds in their ears, and the nightingales sing a minuet for long-dead ears.