Hanging onto that slender thread, pale gold and full of hope; that slips in and out of the light. It runs through forests of trees, over mountains, and across plains. It loops around the necks of running horses and threads through the hair of mane and tail. I hang onto the sun glimmer; yearn after the scatter of silver in the dark night.
So slender it twists through the water ropes of a stream and tangles damp and slippery among the kingcups. Shading my eyes against the brightness, I twist fingers round the lightest gossamer, fearful of it slipping, breaking, reeling away and out of sight, into the empty vastness of tomorrow.
Ariadne kept tight hold, and her thread, so firm and strong, bound her to a furious chimera, a wasted dream. I hold and hope, clutching tight, and peering into the veils of morning. Though the mist turns to rain and the thread leads into obscurity, that’s all there is, tenuous and fragile. Hope.


If wishes were horses

If wishes were horses, would I have a whole herd galloping across a wide green plain? Or would I have one single magnificent animal, the distillation of all that is wild and spontaneous, perfect down to its tiniest imperfections?

Wishes and dreams are what keep us looking forward to tomorrow, help us shrug off the daily greyness of jobs that must be done. Beyond is the green plain of running horses, sometimes shrouded in mist, or seen through veils of rain, but always there in its intangible beauty.

I have my glorious dreams, sometimes a riot of them, sometimes a single brilliant star of a dream. And even if they are like bright water slipping between my fingers, I still follow where they run.

Pity is what I feel, but can never voice, for the friend who keeps a spotless house for husband and children, and follows where her husband’s personal star leads. She is happy, she says, to move and see new places, to keep a spotless home in exotic towns in faraway countries. But I can only imagine the blankness in her heart behind the smile of satisfaction. Time stands still for no one, and soon the dreams, if they come at all, will come too late.

One day, I will catch up with my dreams, running with a herd of wild horses across a green plain.

A taste of summer

Sometimes it takes very little to change mood, outlook, morale. Sometimes just a few degrees of temperature will do it. Today was not just warm as a summer’s day, there was a sense of release, as if at last there was no more fear of getting cold, getting wet, or having the umbrella destroyed in a gale.

I don’t know whether it goes back to an ancestral fear of the ‘dark’ season, when nothing grows, when animals die of cold and hunger, and babies and old people give up the struggle to keep alive that keeps us tense and irritable as long as the bad weather lasts. The spring, the change in the air, the birdsong is a sign that the winter is coming to an end, though the season is fickle, and hail and snow showers can bring down the early buds, and nobody risks going out without a coat.

But, all of a sudden, there is a stillness in the morning air, a warmth that grows until it is too hot to sit in the sun. Suddenly the breeze is warm and full of the scent of flowers. Then we let out a long sigh of relief. We throw caution to the winds, and the windows open to the soft breeze. We set the table outside, and sit long into the evening with a glass of wine or cup of coffee listening to the birds.
The streets, the parks and the promenades fill with people simply marvelling at the blue sky and the green that is covering the dry winter twigs. The scent of cut grass and wisteria fill the air, and the chore of watering the garden plants begins. A taste of summer.
Today was like that.PENTAX Digital Camera