Posts Tagged ‘thought’

The sign said ‘Garden’, but it seemed like nothing more than a long unkempt driveway that wound its way into an unseen distance. She pulled her long pink jacket tightly around her body against the chill of morning air. Then a tight row of stone steps called her down another leaf strewn path until she arrived at a lake where light played tricks and trees seemed to reach from beneath the water’s glassy surface back towards the branches they reflected.

Tiny bridges reached to a tiny island, but these were not hers to cross, so she circled the lake slowly, engrossed by the reflection of the world beneath the surface that seemed so much more real and vibrant than the one she inhabited. The stippled back of a rainbow trout broke the water’s glassy veil twice, sending it to endless ripples, ripping her briefly from her reverie back to the ground on which she stood.

Then a vibrant flash of candy pink caught her eye from the nearby bridge where a small child suspended over the rails glanced up quickly from the water, catching her attention and squealing with delight. The brief meeting of their eyes was as deep as the lake itself, as true a reflection as the connection between actual trunk and reflected leaves.

Then like the fish, the child was gone, and the adult knew that when she was ready to appear again, she would do all she could to make her feel safe enough to stay a little longer. The woman could neither see nor feel the magical breeze that rippled the water and caught the most golden leaves and gave them the sacred gift of flight. She held out the palm of her hand in hope, while the flutter of delicate yellow leaves danced like tiny golden kites before gilding the water below.

When no gossamer leaf kissed her hand to grant her wish, she folded it back into the warmth of her pocket before ambling up the path, towards a world where rainbow fish and butterfly leaves and children on bridges were little more than gentle whispers of what might one day be again.


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Drunk with imagination, intoxicated by inspiration, the lone Imaginist sits by the lake, waiting for a woman who will love him with all her soul forever, and for those who will be his students, eager to learn all he can impart.

Words pour out unhindered by thoughts from the core of his deepest daydreams, like innate diagonal moves across a chessboard that no opponent can match.

He needs no backstory. Plots and characters unfold themselves, without intellectual filters that others who call themselves writers depend upon.

To him, poems and tales are not the entrails of academic process that condemn words to be forever strained, contrived and caged. For the Imaginist knows at the centre of his being that words must always – always – be free to fly.

~ dedicated to My Good Friend, Langley Porter ~

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