Reality or Illusion? by Lee Montgomery
I’m not really sure exactly what I am doing here or even how I got here in the first place but it is beautiful.
This garden has blossomed with age judging by those trees and the carpet of bluebells they shelter. Wildflowers, settled over time lay the perfect aromatic carpet to surround that central clearing. I love this time of the day, just before the sunlight yawns and dips down gently silencing the bird songs into night-time slumber.
This path tells a story. Little stones, not pebbles or gravel but stones crushed underfoot for many a century as it has guided the way towards that impressive iron gate. To be fair it has seen many a better day. The spikes once majestically repelling all entry now stand defeated as the rusty lock crumbles to the lightest of touches. The countryside beyond the ancient wall is stunning. Not cultivated like the little garden but rolling green meadows patch-worked by rustic paths beside ancient hedgerows thatl ead me willingly down to the stream.
No not a stream, more like a little brook, crystal clear and chattering noisily as it tumbles over the rocks. Is that a little ferret washing its paws watching what is left of the light catch in the movement of the mini waterfall that a fry of baby eels are striving to conquer? It looks very young but I somehow know that this is just a deception of its size.
It watches me watching it. The words ‘Learn to dance in the rain’ are suddenly shouted silently within my mind and instantly it’s as if someone is pouring water on a painting, dribbling it across the top of the canvasto melt the whole image. If just oneswirl touches me I know I will cease to exist.
I run wildly back to beyond the gate, to the tranquillity of my garden. Fireflies twinkle between the trees and a full moon bathes the centre in a magical blue light.
Is it real ... or am I dreaming.
I’m not really sure exactly what I am doing here or even how I got here in the first place but it is beautiful.
This garden has blossomed with age judging by those trees and the carpet of bluebells they shelter. Wildflowers, settled over time lay the perfect aromatic carpet to surround that central clearing. I love this time of the day, just before the sunlight yawns and dips down gently silencing the bird songs into night-time slumber.
This path tells a story. Little stones, not pebbles or gravel but stones crushed underfoot for many a century as it has guided the way towards that impressive iron gate. To be fair it has seen many a better day. The spikes once majestically repelling all entry now stand defeated as the rusty lock crumbles to the lightest of touches. The countryside beyond the ancient wall is stunning. Not cultivated like the little garden but rolling green meadows patch-worked by rustic paths beside ancient hedgerows thatl ead me willingly down to the stream.
No not a stream, more like a little brook, crystal clear and chattering noisily as it tumbles over the rocks. Is that a little ferret washing its paws watching what is left of the light catch in the movement of the mini waterfall that a fry of baby eels are striving to conquer? It looks very young but I somehow know that this is just a deception of its size.
It watches me watching it. The words ‘Learn to dance in the rain’ are suddenly shouted silently within my mind and instantly it’s as if someone is pouring water on a painting, dribbling it across the top of the canvasto melt the whole image. If just oneswirl touches me I know I will cease to exist.
I run wildly back to beyond the gate, to the tranquillity of my garden. Fireflies twinkle between the trees and a full moon bathes the centre in a magical blue light.
Is it real ... or am I dreaming.
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