All month, all I.D.E.A.
Archival Remnant No 3 catalogue number MX744
The Winter misses the Summer.
The Winter wants to speak – apart from
icicles, words are all The Winter has.
Or phone.
How did the song go?
“Words, words are all I have, to take your
heart away.”
But instead The Winter sits alone, and
talks to himself. The words bounce pointlessly; autumnal echoes clouding his
mind, searching for a way out until they twist and break, dropping uselessly
amongst the litter of his thoughts.
Where he sweeps them up to begin again.
“Why would The Summer want to hear from
me?” The Winter asks.
Why would she care to listen?
The summer has heard it all before,
measured it and found it wanting.
The Winter imagines The Summer, already far
away, sitting by a fire, staring into the flames…
No.
She is not like that; The Summer will be
busy with dreams and new beginnings.
She is radiant, glowing with her own
firelight, her skin bright and alive. Her eyes too, they have found again the
depth and mystery that was always their beauty.
The Summer’s strength makes The Winter feel
weak.
The Winter is inadequate before her, and he
chokes once again on his own silence.
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4 comments:
He's a wonderful Wiz
A whiz of a Wiz because
because of the wonderful things he does
Keep wizarding we witches applaud you xxxx
Which witch?
Not the white one with the red nose! xxx
O Summer, light, beautiful and ever smug --
Replaced by Winter's blanket, hearth and rug
That warm my toes and give my heart a tug.
Summer loved me well for a little while,
Til it was tempted by a younger smile.
On trips to the Colosseum and the Nile,
Not a care, wind-blown hair, mile after mile.
Conquered then tossed onto the wrinkled grey pile,
Whispers 'cruel to be kind' with heartless style.
Mx
;-)
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