Waiting for Spring

Up the staircase we go, a father and his shadow, the profile of future generations silhoueted on the wall. We are together in our own safe time continuum, I his joy, he my safety net. Untouchable.

We walk in the woods hand in hand under a pewter sky, warm mittened, haloed by clouds of breath, grey air and giggles filling the gaps. Leaves lie heeped and heavy under foot, too damp for crisp-kicking. I collect one of each colour and take them home. A fist of leaves.

The collage of dried leaves remains on the wall, the echo of a poetic heart, autumn years now unfettered by earthly tethers. Our family tree with its broken arm.

The family gather around the kitchen table and say their fare-thee-well.

“Slangevar.” A glass lifted to the heavens.

I walk up the staircase. Me and my shadow. I hold out my hand for the angel and shiver.

“Fare thee well?.”

Beneath me, the family seesaws in a lullaby of grief and memories. A ship in safe harbour, nursing her wounds. A ghost of its former self, love still billows the sails, ready to steer a new course.

Denied

            I was in the high street again, standing in front of the plate glass window of that chi-chi clothes store, lost in my own reflection. When had I become that woman? 

           "Looking in mirrors again Mizzy? What do you see?" A voice from my past broke the spell. Was this real?
           "Steve! Where did you spring from? I didn’t know you came here." I spoke to his illusion, not turning to face him.        
           "I don’t normally, but I have had you on my mind lately. You mentioned this place once."
           "Gosh that must have been ages ago."          
            "It’s been a while Mizzy. I was looking for a fix. Are you still with…"
           "Luke, yes. He wouldn’t like to think I had seen you. And you? Are you with someone new?"        
            "Jan. She’s great but…not as…accommodating as you. Are you still sexsperimenting?"
           "That was a long time ago. I told you. I am with Steve now. He wouldn’t like me talking to you."      
           "I don’t see him here Mizzy. Where is he, this man who is suddenly enough for you" he spat bitterly. "Does it all stay behind closed doors with him?"

          "Don't be like that Steve. It’s different with Luke…more domestic."       
          "That doesn’t sound very thrilling. Doesn’t Lukey-boy have a taste for…diversity? I thought you’d have him trained by now. You must be ravenous Mizzy." His eyes roved over the same reflection I had felt so disconnected to in the window.  "But I see you are satiating your desires in other ways. If not spice, sugar. Is it still like it was in the beginning? Now you are more...domesticated. Do you think he is salivating for you now?"
          I looked at my reflection and felt ashamed of what I had become. But Steve through me a lifeline,

          "I am Mizzy. I still want you." I looked up. "God, look at you Mizzy. You are luscious, ripe for the plucking; tasting; sucking; fucking."

          He leaned in, his breath warming the back of my neck. His strong hands pinning my arms to my side. He inhaled the scent of my hair and let out a groan. Oh, God, I had forgotten how intoxicating this could be. I feel drunk on rekindled desire.

         "Come on Miz, we’ve been here before. You miss me, I know you do. We were untouchable. I know you are burning for resurrection just like me. You must remember how good this can be."

          My skin prickled and I could feel the hum of longing beginning to build. My voice was less certain when I spoke.

         "That was a long time ago. Things are different now, for both of us. What about Luke, Jan?" His tongue curled at the side of my neck, I shuddered.

         "Some things don’t change, Miz."  He took my elbow and spun me to face him. "You want it, I know you do. You want it as much as me." His eyes drilled into me as he reached beneath my jacket and  cupped my heavy breast, flicking his thumb over my hardening nipple.Thickly he whispered, "I smell your desire." He sucked his index finger and traced its wet tip along my collar, down to my cleavage tugging loose the first of the shell buttons. My pulse rose with the flush of anticipation across my chest and neck.

          Before I could gather my wits, Steve pulled me into the shop. The fat woman reflected in the window was gone in that instant, a mere illusion. I wasn’t her anymore. I was a goddess, desirable and dripping my own honey. Steve grabbed a dress from the rail and pulled me to the envelveted changing rooms.

         "It’s not my size" I said weakly as he hustled me inside.

         "I'm not expecting you to wear it. Nice mirrors." He winked leaning back against the closed door. "Now, hadn’t you better get undressed. I know how much you like an audience."

          I was warming to my theme: desirable temptress, seductress. Steve was giving me all the encouragement a girl could need. His eyes followed my every move as I slowly unbuttoned my blouse, my skirt, dropping them to the floor. He licked his lips as I stood in front of him, caressing my curves, luxuriating in the sensuality of my own fulness. I was a goddess. Steve Began to touch himself, the expectation mounting in his own taut frame quickening my own arousal. He was following my old rules: no mutual touching until I said so. I could tease him to the brink and beyond. The power was mine. 

         "Take them off, slowly." He was eyeing my pink leopard print knickers. I slipped a finger into the lace at the side and shimmied them over my hips, my thighs, finally letting them drop to the floor. 

He leaned in predator to prey and I felt the warmth of his breath kiss my cheek..

        "You are such a slut Mizzy," he hissed venomously.
         He turned, unlocked the door, and walked away.

The Life and Times of Atticus Claw

        Atticus Claw tethers himself decisively to the saddle beneath the cone built around the bike hoping it will provide him with the slip stream he requires for perfect aerodynamics. He hopes to conquer the unmapped quarters of the world land speed record.

Sandrine, his girlfriend, a Parisian ventriloquist had whispered in his ear, the first time they rode together.

“Let me put my arms around you, be your seatbelt.” He remembered that intoxicating moment, the growl and leap of acceleration and her body clasped against him, he, her anchor on  the exhilarating cliff top ride along the coast on their way to the Côte d’Azure. Surely they could ride out andy storm together. There was no security with her . She was a firework, one minute ablaze with passion the next, sputtered out. But the ghost of her stayed with him,a shadow of regrets. He felt her voice on the wind as a talisman of sorts and took comfort in that small kindness.

  The clubs referendum on whether to attempt the land speed record had been a definitive moment in his carer, a chance to examine his commitment to the cause. He knew his interest verged on obsession, many friends had come and gone as their own enthusiasm wained, but for him, the internal combustion engine was the air he breathed, speed was  life, and he wanted history to remember him- a slice of the pie with his name on.

He checked the dials one last time, adjusted his goggles, listened for the perfect purr in the throttle. He flexed his grip on the handlebars. This was it. No more preparation. He was ready.The bike surged forward, hungry for destiny, all the flack of a desert salt pan rose up around him, wind and grit and bugs. He trained his eyes on a distant heat haze, fighting to maintain balance on the lunar-like surface, as the crowd cheered, watching the crest form at his back, a wave of salt and dust and exhaust. The world blurred and streaked and he knew his obsession would never be satiated. 

       Conclusion inevitable.

My Storm Tiger

Come to me like a storm tiger

With a human madness to believe in lies.

Come to me like a storm tiger

A striped landscape of outdoor sighs.

Come to me like a storm tiger

An earth goddess, the blue of angels.

Come to me like a storm tiger

Unusual birth free of spells.

Come to me like a storm tiger

Bravery from the ordinary mould her.

Come to me like a storm tiger

Like a step to the moon on a giants shoulder.

Come to me like a storm tiger

Leaping and boxing into the sun.

Come to me like a storm tiger

Love in the dark, leap one, pearl one.

Come to me like a storm tiger

This thing that will not be still:

Truly the blue of angels.

Tabitha Blue

            A throaty growl, constant and comforting comes from Tabitha blue, curled by the fire, the perpetuating circle of another domestic day. My precious old cat; my cat with a sandpaper tongue. I know you love me despite what the cynics and sceptics would say. You may prefer a mouthful of feathers to that meat from the pouch but I can forgive your carnage, admire it even: it’s a part of your genetic code. 

           He is my sweet company, my rough tongued rogue of choice. He looks at me through one grateful eye as I tickle behind his ear. He nudges my hand in appreciation. He climbs to his feet, stretches to downward dog then circles the sun spot, an ‘admire me’ question mark hangs in the air where his tail should be. 

He is not the fine figure of feline aristocracy he once was. He got caught in a rat trap by the tail.  The vet removed the broken length of tail with anaesthetic and a smirk. One humiliation in exchange for another. But Tabitha blue just wobbled his sexy little bottom as he refound his balance and he survived to prowl another day. Dignity intact. One life down, eight to go. 

“You think I am a tamed thing because I share your affection? Think again lady.” He purrs and then bat me away with a paw to show he is still calling the shots. He leaps from the sofa, my cushion king, and skulks across the floor, pausing to stretch with his back turned, stumpy tail pulsing.

“I’m off,” he says, “I am that thing that will never be still.  I’ll be back. I will always be back. I am a watcher, the striped backyard tiger.”

         Answering the call of the wild he opens the door for himself on the world.  

         He is fearless. 

         He never doubts his own importance, his place in the world. 

         He is truly the blue of angels. My domesticated tiger, my loving lion. He is selfish, selfserving; self-centered some say. 

         What is so wrong with asking for what you want or doing what’s right for you? 

         We could learn a lot from cats. 

Decorum and Propriety

          Jenny boarded the omnibus near Ripon and chose a seat next to the window.  The new found freedom of  days off still felt fresh to her and she was determined to make each one a new adventure: life was to be lived. Her work at the big house was an arduous privilege but if it now afforded her this one day a month to taste a different life she was not going to squander it. For that one precious day the servant could become the served.  She knew that to be a true young lady of quality she should have a chaperone but Uncle David was busy with the farm.

        “I can’t go galavanting off gay as you please” he said. “Who’d see to the pigs?”  He had not been galavanting for a long time truth be told thought Jenny. Not since Aunty Mol had passed two years since. He hadn’t even entered the village show this year, said there was no point growing giant marrows and prize winning spuds if the only person he wished to impress was no longer around to admire them.She knew he worried about her when she took off on one of these adventures but the light that would spread across his face in the evening as she told of all she had seen and experienced was its own reward. He could spread his wings vicariously and leave the cares of the farm behind without ever leaving the yard.

        Lost in all these thoughts, her carpet bag clasped on her lap, she had been looking from the window without really seeing. The market town and its beautiful cathedral had dropped away into the seams of the landscape and the undulating folds of the countryside were ironing out as they approached the vale of York. The pale blue cloudless sky that stretched to the horizon was so wide open here she fancied she could see the very curve of the earth. Great swathes of wheat and barley stood in the fields,  straining to reach the sky, rippling in the warm breeze like a green-gold sea.  To Jenny’s eyes the air had never rung so clear.

        As the omnibus arrived in the outskirts of the city she chose to alight and walk the last few stops, dropping down to the path that led along the side of the river. Meadowsweet and dog-daisies clamoured for her attention, tripping onto the path in their eagerness to be seen. Rosebay willow herbs flounced their tendrils, flirting their plumage in the breeze. Overhanging branches admired their reflections and tickled the waters surface for making sport of their filigree lace. Jenny stood a while, entranced by the beauty and let loose the ribbons of her bonnet raising her face allowing all her contours to be kissed by the sun’s warmth. What tender embrace could surpass this? The servants hall was always rife with gossip over one coupling or another, the girls who raised their hopes when a new footman was employed or a new tradesman’s lad came to call. She was not immune to this gossip. She had imagination enough to dream that one day the perambulator she was pushing would be hers, something at the very heart of her longed for it, but her head was too sensible to believe it could ever happen. Each time the dream came she shoo’ed it away with a broom like so many spiders webs not to be given countenance. Hers was a game of ‘Old maid’  not ‘Happy Families’. But today; today she felt any dream could be aired in this golden light.

        The town loomed ahead of her, its mellow stone rounded with age. The air was perfumed by Mr Rowntree and the brewers alike. She climbed the steps away from the river and made her way down the cobbled alley with its overhanging tudor apartments. Space was at a premium on the pavement as shop owners spilled their wares on to the street, ironmongery, haberdashers, milliners, grocers with their fruits nesting in straw lined boxes. She walked towards the monument slowly, stopping to examine some ribbon; a turquoise hair comb in a glass fronted window; the bloom of a peach all the time knowing her goal lay just beyond the monument. She heard the ladies talk of it often, their tea room of choice: Alexanders. She wondered if her nerve would fail at the last moment and she would prefer a setting less salubrious. No, today she was a lady of independent means and flushed with the warm glow of the sun was content in her right to be there along with the peerage.

        Jenny checked her reflection in the glass as she pushed through the cafe door, correcting her cuff and an errant curl. The door tinkled genteelly as she passed through and instantly she was wreathed in the delicious scents of freshly baked goods, tea and coffee. She stepped up the the Maitre d’s lectern and waited for direction. An army of waiters and waitresses swanned gracefully between tables waiting on the elegant assembly. There was a hierarchy for those who new how to read it. The subtleties of rank were easy to observe for one who worked in a large establishment. The most senior staff wore silver filigree buttonieres attached to their lapels and white gloves. They took the diners to their table, advising them of the day’s specials, dealing with any immediate needs they had. Next a host of waitresses wearing a headband of broderie anglaise dressed with a plain black feather pinned with the silver ‘A’ for Alexanders brought food to the tables on silver trays, waiting on the guests. Finally the tables were cleared by the junior staff in smartly starched aprons. They dipped curtsies as they cleared the plates. You could almost hear the murmur of them:hear no evil, see no evil speak no evil. There job was to be invisible or loose their job. Something that without a reference most of them could not afford to do.

         “Ahem.” The Maitre d’ appeared and quietly cleared his throat. “How can I help you Mademoiselle?” He was neat as a pin, his uniform stiff and as self assured as its owner.

        “I would like to take a bowl of tea if I may.” It seemed appropriate that her response was formal although Jenny thought these words sounded most odd coming from her and she blushed slightly, laughing at herself.

        “And are you expecting company this afternoon Mademoiselle?”

        “Not today, no.”

        “Very well Mademoiselle, one moment please” The Maitre ‘d scanned the ledger and then beckoned to one of the waiters, pointed to the seating chart and whispered a few brief instructions. The waiter nodded curtly and disappeared. “I have a table being prepared for you now Mademoiselle. Would you care to follow me?”

        She followed weaving through the peers and heiresses drinking tea and nibbling dainties, the new money and the old rubbing unwilling shoulders. 

        “I think we have not seen you hear before Mademoiselle. Is this your first time to Alexanders?”

        “Yes it is Sir.”

        “Well I hope we will see you often. As it is your first visit may I recommend the house blend, it is most refreshing.” 

         “Thank you.”

         “Your table.” Jenny had wondered if she would be put in a corner, a lady alone, not quite the society clientele they were used to but she could not have been more wrong. She had been led to a charming grey veined marble table by the window looking out onto the street. There was a vase of sweet peas blushing at the centre and silver cutlery tucked into a white linen napkin alongside a fine bone china cup and saucer.

         “Oh, how delightful! I shall feel like the Queen of Sheeba.”

         “And as beautiful if I may be so bold.”

         “Oh!” Jenny was unfamiliar with compliments and could not think how to respond but smiled into the Maitre ‘d’s eyes and bobbed a curtsey enjoying the heat of his gaze. “What a lovely view,” she said, remembering just in time to turn away from him to look out of the window.

         “I always think it is pleasant when dining alone to have a pleasant view to contemplate. May I take your wrap?”

         “Thank you.”

         “And a name?” He hesitated and their eyes met again making her feel flustered. “Your name Mademoiselle, for the cloakroom ticket.” Of course, the cloakroom ticket. Had she really fancied he was flirting with her? What a goose she was.

          “Jenny. I mean Miss Myrtle”

          “Jenny” he repeated softly. “It is truly an honour to meet you” His hand brushed the nape of her neck as he eased the garment from her slim shoulders and a shiver walked her spine as delicious as the summer breeze. “I will take care of this personally. I would not like for it to get lost.” His smile was genuine, inviting and she saw the glimmer of mischief in him.

          “I think it will be quite easy to spot among the firs Sir!” she said as he pulled out the chair for her to sit.

          “André, call me André.” He leant in and whispered as she sat “But it will give me the opportunity of speaking with you again before you leave.”

He lingered long enough to see her cheeks colour and was gone.

          Jenny felt her deepest wishes begin to churn, butterflies tumbling like acrobats beneath her ribs and allowed herself to enjoy the sensation. “Just for now, just for today.” she thought. A waiter appeared at her side.

          “Do you know what you would like Ma’m. Perhaps something from the sweet trolley? I can recommend the house blend of tea. It is most restorative.”

          “So I hear.” A wry smile lifting one corner of her mouth. “Could I just have a moment please”

          “Of course Ma’m.”

          The waiter retreated. Jenny sat for a moment letting the butterflies dance themselves out as she peered out at the scene beyond Alexanders. She was a goldfish in her own bowl, the world slowly turning without her. When the waiter returned uncalled for a few moments later he held a teapot swaddled in a  padded linen cosy and before she could object set it down in front of her.

         “With the complements of Monsieur André Ma’m. The house blend. Shall I pour Ma’m?”

         “No, thank you. I shall let it steep a while.” The butterflies had returned. Desperate to have some space to think she asked to see the sweet trolley and once more the waiter beetled off. Had the fortune teller at the fair been truthful. Could her future be written in liquid amber, in tea? 

         The waiter pushed the heavily laden trolley over to the table. There was fruit mouse and frangipan, strawberry tarts and turnovers, meringues and madeleines, there were so many delectable fancies the choice was almost overwhelming. There on a dish almost hidden by the more decorative items were some almond macaroons and she knew at once that was what she would choose: a perfect complement to her afternoon tea. You are what you eat she had heard said. She did not need frills or chocolate swirls, sugar paste roses or crystals of sugar. Honest food for an honest soul. Like a macaroon she was perhaps a little rough around the edges but soft on the inside and comforting and delicate.

The waiter lifted the macaroon with silver tongs on to a doilies plate for her

        ‘A fine choice Ma’m.” and then squeaked away between the tables with the trolley.

Time for tea. Jenny removed the cosy and found a cloakroom ticket secured to the handle. A number forty nine was printed on one side, and on the other side a hand written note. She took a sip of tea to swallow the lump in her throat and read the tiny cursive carefully.

My shift has ended but I would be honoured to accompany you home.

I will wait by the monument. If you prefer to go home alone I will of course leave you in peace.

Your servant A

        She raised the cup to her lips she caught sight of a dashing young man in a trilby and mackintosh leaning on the monument outside the window. André. He looked easier out of the stiff uniform, more approachable. He had done well to achieve such a respected position at Alexanders so young and she believed him to be respectable even if his offer was a little unorthodox. If she were to have any chance of happiness outside her life at the big house she could not stand on propriety, she would need to take a chance. She smiled at him and raised her cup in salute, nodding almost imperceptibly. His face lit and he doffed his hat to her then sat on the monument step to read the paper and wait at her leisure.

Half an hour later they strolled through the liquid amber light of the late afternoon as they headed towards the bus stop arm in arm, acquainting each other with their past, their future unfurling ahead of them.

Still Small Voice Of Calm

There’s a still small voice of calm, burried under the the hurly burly but there none the less. Listen to the quiet murmurings of constance, the truths: love, joy, freedom; they are there for the taking. In all the maelstrom of activity it can still be heard if only we listen.

Find a place, a happy place, where the rest of the madness receedes. Breathe, long and slow and deep. Let the cares drain away and give your subconscious self centre stage. Let the thoughts suggest themselves on a tide of breath, bubble up from the underground source. Make time for the quiet thoughts, the patient thoughts that do not fight for a place and demand action. Let them glimmer as they bathe in the sunlight. Recognise the riches that are within us. Recognise your true self in this precious time. Mindfulness is the key to unlock the subtleties that make the ordinary extraordinary.

Georges Sand Sees

        George Sand sees a bloodied albatross bruised and swollen, washed up on the beach. It has been disgorged by the waves and rolled, over and over, in the rhythm of a spring tide, high up the shore line. It lies half hidden beneath knots of bloated seaweed drying in the salt-damp air. Do you smell iron or umami? Flavours of the world hidden in the wind. He walks on, knowing it is too late for the bird. It is carrion now, the other side of the spectrum. The crows will come or the tide; some means of transportation to the new world. Something will claim the flightless soul and write it in to the tail of a new mariner.  Can you the shadows growing longer? Death has come to claim his own,  or is it just the wind breathing in his ear? This is where the madness stalks him, between shadows of spirits and sense. He is the albatross: a ghost of himself, lamenting the free glide of flight as he’s carried in binding currents, a wingspan of freedom away from airbourne delight. Oh! To be splashed like a sea-dog: old spice, salt and a hint of herring. Oh! To be a bird on the wing. It cannot be.

         Do you feel the stones beneath your shoe? George Sand crunches off down the beach, grinding decayed shell and rock beneath his heels dragged by an internal compass.  He’s heading who knows where. A bland journey of one foot infront of another. His thoughts stay behind with the albatross and he looks out to sea through the mizzle scanning the hinted horizon for explanation, understanding of life’s mysteries. Does the black beetle know the way? Someone holds the plan in the palm of their hand; a microscopic blueprint. How can he hide the secret? Maybe it’s written in the stars. Otherwise it is just endless searching, uncertainty.  Maybe that is the key to unlocking it all: Understanding the true value of those things hiding in plain sight. 

Death will resolve it perhaps. (Does it count if you close your eyes?)  When we reach between bruised skies and rainbows will we suddenly understand. Is that it? George Sand scuffs his feet kicking a pebble and smiles. On a day like today he will take it at face value, breathe the salted air, feel the crust beneath his feet and hear the ocean sigh upon the shore, reaching for the gargle and gush of rockpools. He will wait, listen: the world has many languages and they are no less beautiful for being lost in translation.

Auspices

The wild woman stoops under the weight of birdsong as she crosses the meadow with her one glass eye firmly fixed on the path ahead as day unfurls it's sails and bleaches night to memory like an echo of death.

Ned walks towards her twisting a willow dream catcher between his hands, a spiderweb of rabbit gut creating its hole; a hole for dreams to fall through it seems, for his dreams have not been caught.

“I know you mean to help me, Bess, but whatever it is, it is not this that can help me.” He throws the dreamcatcher onto the ground, startling rooks and dislodging the owl from its nook as the world turns in its axis.

“Don't lose your head, Ned; have patience. You are like a cauliflower for going over and giving up so soon. Make for your love a nest of flattened grasses and fill it with buttercups and stories. Blanket it with tunes and decorate it with dew-glass jewels and Kingfisher quills. Gather your beloved and tell her…”

“Tell her what?” He interrupts.

“Tell her: “You make my heart sing.” Make for yourself a handful of auspicious days: follow the song thrush and listen to the progress of the woodpecker to be sure that they are real. Swim in each other's senses, hold your love in your arms. It is no good to rely on dreams when life is there for the taking. I may only have one eye, Ned Burgess, but I can see the truth as clear as I see you standing here.”

With that wild Bess walks on, a secret smile playing on her lips as she remembers her own auspicious days. She tiptoes through the dogwood and cornflour to check the rabbit holes and chuckles as she walks,

“…like a cauliflower!”

Butterfly Breakdown

       Eartha kicked the wheel of the car uselessly and watched as the steam rose from the bonnets seams. She would never get the the butterflies to the venue in time. They were to have been set free at the start of Charlotte’s set: a cloud of butterflies dissipating while she herself morphed into being from the lights on stage. A beaten up Volvo pulled up in the layby ahead and a man with a heavily tattooed arm leaned from the window.

      “Need some help love?”

      Eartha seeths. Is there any more blatantly stupid thing anyone can possibly say in this situation. She reigns in her temper and takes a deep breath.

       “Phone’s dead, radiator’s overheated and I need to get to Stroud. Any chance you might be a mechanic?”

       “Not me love, I’m a foosball champion, amateur circuit. But we're going to Stratford. Me and my mate Billy here are going to the Festival. We could give you a lift if you like.”

      “That's very kind. How much room do you have?”

      “Back seats free.”

      “How do you feel about carrying livestock?”

      “Do what?”

      “Livestock.”

      “Well, none of your cats and dogs, I'm allergic see”

      “I've got 600 butterflies to release at the start of Charlotte Pryor set. They're all boxed. I don't think they will be a problem.”

      “Well let me help you load ‘em into the car then."

     “Thanks.This really is very kind of you," she smiles warmly.

     Ed gets out of the car, his low rise shorts revealing more than they conceal, and limps over to Eartha’s car.

     “Oh dear, have you hurt your foot?”

     “Nah. Athletes foot. Ruined my professional career it did. I'd rather not talk about it.”

     They load the butterflies in busy silence. Eartha locks the steaming car, leaving her collection of glass jelly moulds covered under a picnic rug.

     They pass through a stale slate village and know the destination cannot be much further. (It is difficult for Eartha to see the yellow information signs without being distracted by Ed’s foot which he now had hanging out of the window: he said the cool air made the itching more bearable.)

      The Volvo pulls up to the entry gate in a plume of exhaust fumes. They speek with urgency to a security guard in Day-glo orange jacket.

      “We need to get these butterflies to Charlotte Pryor as quickly as possible.” The guard looks surprised.

      “She's here as it happens, just popped down for a chat.” He indicates the little wooden hut and as they peere inside the booth they spot Charlotte. She is sitting quietly, absorbed in her knitting and chewing on an apple. Eartha finally understands why they used to call her Cousin Apple when she was a small child, and her oft repeated saying comes to mind: a little of what you fancy does you good.

Believe

          I find my treasure in a choir of bells. I like to hear them, be warmed by their vibrancy. They are smug with the richness of belonging and leave me wondering: who will cherish me? Will I find someone who's heart answers to mine; sees the beauty in the colour of a butterfly's wing? 

        Maybe. 

        I will read my thoughts to the hills; gift myself to a rainbow's chorus line so I too can be dressed in the silks of happiness. 

          I will board a black obsidian steam train and travel back to Moscow, gaze at the onion domes of the cathedral, the Winter Palace, the wide frozen sea. I will wrap myself in sheepskins against the cold and know the warmth at my own heart. I will harvest memories from all the corners of the world and treasure them for as long as I can stand on my own two feett. Only then, in my rocking chair days, when I can light the incense and lift the lid on all the treasures of my heart will I know the fulness of life; a mushroom farm of freedom; light on fields of corn at sunset, swimming in a mineral lake; the echo of song in the canyon. I will suck pistachio ice cream from a spoon and drink saffron coloured tea. And I will know I have shared in the richness of belonging because I hold safe my own heart, my own memories, my own treasure. And I too will know the way to a small child's heart and I will whisper the secret of happiness into their ear;

        "Live on a narrow boat, paint daisies, write poetry, sing love songs, suck the juice from a watermelon and spit the pips into the wind; feel all of life, follow your heart. Above all listen to the voice of your own heart song and believe."

        "Believe?"

        "Believe."

Hidden Future

        Celine stood in the courtyard and breathed in the peace and serenity holding it to her so that this moment would remain, encased in her ribs safe at her crimson heart. The impluvium sat at the heart of the space singing, the trickle of water marking the place where copperhead pots had been filled daily for centuries. A star-form lantern hung in a constricted caligraphy of metal and glass gleaming in the light, sending prisms of coloured reflections to decorate the tiled floor. This was a magical space. A space of new beginnings holding possibilities more precious than all the treasures of a royal household.

        A man with smiling unguarded eyes came forward to greet her with warmth and generous hospitality. She sensed he was soft to the core, kind, a man who appreciated life’s simple pleasures and would know the way to a small child's heart. She felt the taut pocket in the hem of her sleeve for reassurance. It was stuffed with her wedding ring wrapped in a lavender handkerchief. She heard again the voice of her grandmother:

         "I have sewn into the hem both your past and your future. The gold will fetch a good price. Keep it safe, keep it hidden, until you need it. Find your happiness. Find a new future.”

        Celine spoke haltingly to the man in a language that felt awkward on her tongue.

        "I have come a long way. Can you help me?  I'm looking for Jamilla."

        Her future could begin here. Hidden in this world within worlds she could learn to leave the fear behind.

The Riddle Of The Sands

           From the mist curled in the foothills of the dunes came a golden camel expectorating bile, willing to share the 'Riddle of the Sands' for a share of the fireside. He slowed in the security of heat, orb like eyes flaring luminous in the glow of the flames and casting long shadows into the deeper nights cloak.

           “The Mighty Caliban was created and destroyed by the Great Jinn of this desert. People are sometimes fooled by the Jinn’s disguises, but, yes, he was great. To begin he had one unbroken foot and for security he did not use the other foot but walked about on his elbows across the sand dragging his form behind him like a snake, following the ripples of the dunes.

            The Jinn was angered by Caliban's desire for power so cursed him, imprisoning him in the stays of a wasp's carapace. Still hungry for power Caliban sought to dominate the beasts of the earth, buzzing angrily about them and threatening them with a flash of his black and yellow body and his far reaching poisonous sting. He aggressively preyed on all those who could not defend themselves, until that is he caught and tore his wing on a thorn. He spiralled down to the hot desert sand and there was no escape from the burning heat. He floundered on the earth at the mercy of all, unable to escape into the security of the sky. It was then that he met the King of Tiny Things, golden wings glinting in the sunlight, a cloak of azure blue covering his broken foot.

            "I am watching you closer than you think, oh transposed Caliban. I have seen how your desire to dominate is undiminished by your current size. I think I should call upon the Tempest to teach you a lesson. He is always keen to give someone a hiding!”

But still blinded by arrogance and conceit Caliban did not realise he was addressing the Great Jinn in disguise.

            "You have no power over me you insignificant gnat, I am the great Caliban" he sang out. Seeing that Caliban had failed to learn his lesson, without further words or delay, the King of Tiny Things flicked his iridescent wings and turned the unworthy Caliban into a louse. Caliban was so ashamed of his new form that he curled up and hid so perfectly within his body that he was impossible to discover. He crawled into the sand and overtime calcified, only then revealing that there was indeed some beauty within. 

Worlds Within Worlds

The carved spheres spin in the heavens, worlds within worlds, spheres within spheres, coherent yet separate. The first is made of jade. A king and a queen move between the dragon’s claws. She wears a jade hair comb decorated with a golden harp, he a jade pendant. They share together the gift of uninterrupted time and dance within a ring of ancestral names lined with rows of forget-me-nots bordered by the colosseum.

On the second sphere a maiden glances to the atmosphere above, praying to unknown gods, worrying at a necklace of musical notes hung on a thread of pure light. She hopes. She prays. But her heart is as brittle as a glass bauble. She picks at the bunch of daisies; he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not. There is no certainty in her life and all that she knows is that everything is fresher after the rain.

“Dear gods have mercy and bring my love home safe,” she pleads, and yet with her next breath tumbles the thought, “or shall I take the journey into my own hands and dictate my fate. Surely every journey starts with a single step.” And thus she turns and turns again; a sphere inside a sphere, a world within a world.

The third sphere is made of earth and rock and sponge and sea. It hangs at the centre of it all, a beating heart. a keepsake locket containing a catalogue of memories and scars, and the people here know how to savour time. They live their lives with their backs to the sun. Toil and treasure go hand in hand for hard work and diligence bring their own merit. Holding up their tools, be it spade or spatula and hold it with patience. Time only flows one way and soon they will dance in Elysium’s colosseum with the gods, surrounded by forget-me-nots and the echoes of their life’s deeds will echoes through eternity.