Ophelia

Red for blood, the poppies grow; where the dead men fell.

Down, away by the water, sat a lady. Enthralled by the chuckle of the trickling stream, she had seated herself upon a mossy rock; from here, she saw the kingfishers rise and fall, the leap of the trout, the cry of deer on the far banks. The lady knew all these things, she knew she need not interfere with them; she saw that they were good.
When the sun became hot on her back, she moved to the shade. When she found the shade chilling, she moved to the sunlight. With her eyes, she followed a furrow in the water upstream. The wheel was affixed to a small house, the small house perched on a low bank; the strong pine timbers seemed to jostle, each eager to peer into the shallow water.
She stood, walked, barefoot through the living mud of the shore; she reached, tentatively, to stroke the bark of every tree she passed. She strode along the rough path to the house; over the bridge, through the gate. Her tender hand reached out, and she caressed the rough-hewn pine of the wall, its surface a mass of scars and cuts. With her hands, she nursed the wood.
The man came then, throwing open the door and hesitantly ambling into the yard. He stared, his mouth agape, at the lady; words failed him.
She ran her hands along the panelling, closing her eyes. Where her hands passed, shocks of flowers exploded into bloom. Wood buckled, cried out, and grew. The thatch scrambled and scratched for freedom, the timbers screamed for life, the sap beat to a rhythm of rebellion; the flowers nodded. Thy will be done.

Gold for life, the daffodils grow; their reasons best known to themselves.

Ophelia

Fyfe

Joined February 2008

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