Frivolous Musings

A scene runs through my mind on replay. I hope you will allow me the frivolousness of the text and images - a simple wandering through time and imagined lives based on this island in the Spring and far too much Jane Austen.  

A man is walking through a verdant wood at dawn, a time when light appears as fragments, a kind of fairy dust, a zillion Tinkerbells who will create daylight upon holding hands. 

 

This man high-steps through knee deep bluebells. His skin has taken the waxy, blue-green hue of the surrounding vegetation as though he had popped his head through the loam this very morning. 

He leans into his destination, his pant legs damp with morning dew.
 

He pushes forward to his love in her country manor home.  

 

This woman waits in a dress the colour of robins eggs, her hair a strawberry blonde, with long curls cascading across porcelain skin. Delicate shoulders support her gown and the weight of the world as she frets over the unknown arrival time of her forest wanderer. 

Her eyes, the blue of tropical seas remain slightly red at their rims. She has no more tears to shed and will confront him on sight, after he dotes on her sufficiently.

He pictures her and the comforts of home in his mind's eye. He cannot tarry long in the woodland depths for fear of a misstep, a fall. Fraught with tension and weak with exhaustion, he must arrive whole in body if not yet so in spirit. He will tell her she is the hero of his story and he the fool. The blood from a recent wound stains the colour of his singlet to a deep crimson and he presses on with the determination of a warrior. The heart of the lover pushes him forward.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. 2013.