As my gaze wanders my eyes fall upon a velvet milktoast wash; words spoken, and I catch a brief glimpse of moonlit cloud closed in by two vivid sunsets. My gaze wanders further; my thoughts are lost when suddenly I behold two meadows of Irish green over which the west wind blows revealing hidden gold, over a pool of moonless night. Concealing a beauty that few will ever know but is there as surely as the grass shall grow, as serenely as the tide flows.
Every now and then I hear a sound like that of the west wind blowing, telling me the sun will rise and I’ll get to gaze upon those fields and admire those two tiny mountain ranges. I want to let my eyes roam the valleys of those hills, look over the edge and see those brilliant white breakers flash something deep down; so deep that no one knows the secrets they keep. Telling me only of a velvet milktoast wash, sprinkled with the carnations that the flower girl sells on Saturday.
Maybe I should wander and journey to the fjords, delicate, strong, and supple. Tracing thoughts like the dolphins trace pictures in the sea, leaving a delicate wake of words for someone to follow, or turning ashes in a broken stone ring to pictures in the sky. Lit by the moon or the sun, lies a mind clearer than a foggy day, telling me to wait for the rain to fall.
Perfection reflects from puddles of molten silver that stand after a rain of moonlight on green grass, full of ripples that are washed by the jealous sun and overlooked by masses of stones that pass by each day, only noticed by those willing to stop for a second and gaze at their reflections.
My travels are complete for now. My eyes are bright and my soul and heart have traveled a thousand miles and are ready to travel a thousand more. But now I can think of nothing but warmth and contentment, like the first rays of a clear winter sunrise.
My ears have heard a symphony composed by what lies under those two fields and sung by a choir of pearls in a carnation room. Danced to by some sort of telepathy.
The magic pauses for a while with a warm embrace, and the sound of breathing. Hands of satin speak a quiet goodbye, broken by the clip clap sound of black sandals on concrete. Intermission has started, life gets up and the audience waits for the next act to start…
Two people miles apart holding hands in understanding while two more holding hands are miles apart. Eyes gaze at a world of beauty one lit by the radiance of something deep the other lit by moonlight.
07:33 09/10/02
glad to see you too
milk toast,
n.
Toast, usually buttered, served in warm milk, often with sugar or seasonings