I’m very tired today dear Scribblers so I’m posting this on Wednesday evening, just so I can have a bit more of a lie-in tomorrow (I get up early to post.) So for this week’s Life post, with a great deal of trepidation I’d like to offer you a bit of flash fiction.
It is a day that seems to be expressed entirely in a palette of wild, but unobtrusive shades. The sky is a downy grey and the sea is tinged with a touch of iron-grey that shrouds its usually gentle teal heart.
The shale of the shoreline is calm, all oatmeal and sand. Long yellow-gold tough grasses stem outwards from small outcrops at a safe distance, kept back from the gravel of the shore. It is a wet day with a gentle, unruffled pace.
The grass stands stiff and fine as needles, or as the hair of a lover, observed quietly very close up, in the languid time after tumult but before dawn. I remember the immense but quiet affection I felt in chancing upon a perfectly split end.
Your hair was a mane. There was no other way to describe it. It, and you, possessed undeniably leonine largesse – and yet you had such a quiet heart. My hand in yours was an act of immersion. I dissolved into your warmth like salt and water, or dust motes in sunlight. Unmoored, surprised but trusting. There is such a wonder in loving.
The Lion and the Mermaid, that’s who we were. That deserves a shanty, so I sing one on the wind: You do not love me, my feet are bloody. I grow too weary to roam. I stain the sea’s neutrality and hope to change to foam.
(© Copyright Pola Negri 17/11/2015.)