The breeze was gentle, but insistent. It whipped at her hair with playful, random strokes and, occasionally, peppered her face with a fine dusting of sand. She squinted a little against such invasion but did not once drop her gaze. She looked out to sea, searching. What for, not even she could fathom, but her probing was unrelenting, unflinching.
She stayed that way for an hour, maybe more. Time had lost all meaning, all significance. The book in her hand remained unread, her mind oblivious to even its own meanderings. But it was travelling! It carried her on its back, an eagle, soaring over as yet unvisited lands; dipping over fish-glittered oceans. It took her, ghost-like, into homes of mossy warmth, kitchens hanging with dried flowers and herbs; potions bubbling on stove-tops; to intimate tables with wine-laden glasses; mirth and magic and adoration. It led her, her own sweet guide, to meetings of minds, evenings of contented nothings, smiles passed tenderly over tasks at hand.
She walked slowly away, transfigured; her life inextricably altered. Nothing would again be the same. But with that very realisation came the delicate appreciation that it was what it was, and thus it should be.
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2 comments:
good evening Alice. your writing is much too polished and stimulating a read to be described as either practice ramblings OR the musings of a messy mind! i think i have you there under the trade description act. keep writing...
with love,
rebecca
an appreciative reader
Rebecca, your kind words of encouragement are all I need to plug onwards.
Thank you.
With love to you, too,
Alice
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