England

A humble winter tree

Winter Tree

On a winter’s night, under an indigo-black sky a tree stands alone next to a yellow light on the corner of a city pavement. It is bold, youthful and strong yet quite ordinary.  An intricate spiral pattern emerges from light-reflecting, icy moisture on smooth, bare branches. Nature shows a face, an invisible web connecting each twig and sleeping bud with light and molecules and atoms, energy, cold and magnetism. Cars rush by.  A man walks his dog.  A couple argue on their way home from the pub.  Yet no one sees the trees incandescent display.  The secret remains within the humble roadside, ice-lit winter tree which, on occasion, reveals the hidden code of everything.

 

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Dream of flying away

I live in the 19th century in Victorian London.  The drawing room is crowded with men in top hats and coat tails.  There is a thick, smoky fug.  I am stifled.  I want to escape.  I sneak out of the back door and walk to the end of a long, thin, untidy garden.  I lift my layers of skirts and scale a metal fence; the like of which I have never seen before.  I jump from a height into a busy road. Every which way I turn there are motorised vehicles so I run.  I run and run down the road till air fills my mourning dress and lifts my feet and I am flying.  My flight is jerky and uncertain.  I’m worried my petticoats will get caught beneath angry wheels.  I try flying with one arm outstretched but two arms thrust forward gives me more power.  Yet I cannot gain enough height to stay above the bustle.

 

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Fleeing the past