I had convinced myself it wouldn’t happen: that blink-and-miss instance, of burgundy – and don’t we know burgundy is best! – and striped checkers and everything in which I had once believed, perhaps made a cursive idol.
A second blink, and the road became a wave of child-like euphoria, the rushing tarmac in pull towards that speck of colour. None of the surroundings touched me; no other shade but that rose-coloured rhythm obscured my lonely view. In a march, your presence had hit the air like a thousand sonic ripples. Ripples knocking body and head together; yes, my mind had been shaken to distraction.
The wind through rushes whistled and the grass lay springy beneath my feet, grass trodden many a time before, by every insignificant eye unseeing; but now my eyes were opened to the words underneath this beaten track – it bounced, and auburn became emerald.
Here stood the gaping expanse of my new home, but my eyes honed in on the receding figure in the distance.
Up where the blanket of air beamed, a sun winked amongst the plateaux. There crows had once flown, dark iridescence. But have I learnt to disbelieve? Have I been taught this cynicism through my veins? Like a second-hand poem, I have repeated and re-chewed the same old theories, locked verse after verse with petty, overused spite.
These pathways, though, rustle and show me a newer life in another’s eyes.
Nature crawls around me as the leaves direct my feet. I am in an alien landscape, courted only by my own desires. I must be insane, and my head lighted to a candle – how else would smoke cloud my eyes, but coat my heart in lighter air?