Written for the SpeakEasy, using the following rules:
Here are the rules:
Your post must be dated April 6, 2013, or later.
Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
You must include the following sentence ANYWHERE in your submission: “Two young hares, rump to rump like duelling pistols, crouched by the gate.”
You must also include a reference to the media prompt (Portishead, Glory Box).
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The trail leading to the cliffside path that rims glacier lake in the heart of the Mohonk Preserve beckons in a tantalizing, yet ominous, way. The signpost stands as a beacon, warning of the danger (and promise) that lay in store.
I know that should I take the first uncertain step, I will be unable to turn back, as each mossy, leaf-covered stepping stone becomes a goal unto itself. Yet, with my whittled walking stick in hand, I begin my ascent. Almost immediately, I realize that I am torn between wanting to reach the end of the trail – the beginning of my scenic excursion around the lake – and wanting this prelude to continue.
Reaching the destination will, no doubt, have it’s reward, as the steep, rock-sided glacier lake below will stretch out before my eyes like a delicious offering of brandy held within a stunning crystal snifter. And yet there is something compelling about this trek to the summit. The wonder of the woods and the lure of this underbrush-covered trail offers birds-eye glimpses into a wondrous ecosystem. More importantly, I know this potentially treacherous trek to the summit will change me; may clear away the cobwebs of my mind, and at best, may allow the light of clarity to seep into my soul.
Crimson next to sun-gold folds stand tall, They line up straight, o’erseeing seabirds’ calls Lining beachside snack bar table sides, Just waiting for the snowbirds to arrive.
Reflections on the beachside bar so clear, Remind me why I come again each year, sweetness sweeps my senses through, a tease, As I Inhale the surf-clean wafting breeze.
Soon the sun will rise to azure skies, Umbrellas will be opened full and wide, To welcome snowbirds’ pale skinned face and limbs Sip Marguerites with salted, icy rims.
The endless break of waves on shore, Replenish teeming life-chains spawned, Distracted not, he stares out, ever sure That curl is filled with promise evermore In under-swirling eddy’s from beyond.
This discipline has served him well He waits, he skims the surface brine, Intent to weather every swell, As patiently, his stance foretells Of Nature’s balanced scales through time
Damp grains of sand fill up all the spaces ‘tween my toes, As foaming surf rushes to embrace the shore, Erasing every foot-mold, as if they’d never been.
Companioned only by a plain-tone plover, we stroll slowly, stopping only for a peek beneath a broken shell; We both seem to crave this shared solitude.
Each in search of sustenance; mine, a spiritual salve, A certain remedy (as sea and shore have always been), For chasing ills and sadness back to other worlds.
Profoundly quiet, shimmering dawn will live in memory, And with each flash, recall to mind this blessed gift, This miracle morning, stirring in my soul.
One of my many obsessions is photographing sunrises. There is nothing like the peace and stillness just before sunrise. On a beach, the gulls gather to swoop up their breakfast; in Eze de Provence, one can hear the distant fishing boats below, in Villefranche sur Mer, pulling in their catch; at the Polynesian Village spectacular sunrise skies foretell of the soon-to-be-fulfilled fantasies; and from my own back porch long shadows serve as backdrop for garden warblers. But this March 27, 2014 morning in Ponte Vedra, I was stunned by the stellar spectacle of a sliver crescent Moon hanging with a super-bright Venus, in the still dark, pre-dawn sky, giving a whole new dimension to my sunrise obsession.
But it isn’t just anywhere. The cobblestones in this square have been a feeding ground for pigeons and pedestrians for centuries. This square sits on the heart of Avignon, just behind and down the alley from the entrance to the historic cathedral, and steps from the Pont d’Avignon.
Today the square is lined with small cafés, flower shops and boutiques. Would that we could be transported back in time, to bear witness to the tumultuous events and changes that the cobblestones have weathered.
And as for the pigeon; I suspect that he cares not of history or tourism. He cares only that here in this well-trodden place, on and between these uneven cobblestones, there are crumbs a-plenty.
The moment arrives, Time to satisfy the beast within. Boardwalk planks remind me; I’m shoeless! Thrust into this moment, I pause, Gasping, I see only beauty ahead: Symmetry! Simplicity! Serenity! I’m homeward bound.
The moment arrives,
Opal Reflections 