Monday, 7 February 2011
Fitz and the Dizzy Spells
We are running - look there you go a head. All that can be heard admist the gentle roar of the sea is trickling laughter. It is great and fills the space entirely. I see the wind pick you up and it is almost as if you are flying. No, sailing. That's it. Look at you go. You're spinning away. Carried by a momentum unknown to anyone but yourself. The sand seems to part itself in your quake. Receiving you with all known graces. It was just warm enough for the wind not to run chills down our arms and so your clothes are spiralling. They tug in all directions but don't disway you from your course. The ribbons in your hair dance carelessly. Colours are not to be discerned as the sun refracts and light spills everywhere. There are orange, yellow, purple, blue, pinks laced and intertwined all around us. The horizon is a perfect batik where the sky kisses the sea. We see their embrace so clearly in this late evening hour. It was almost as if this place had been untouched, if it weren't for the reminents of little sand-made castles. Their turrets slowly crumbling in the lapping, soft tide. Oh, look at you soar. The two should not meet but it is indeed a delicate and magnificent view to behold. Your hair is shining, long and billowing. It is dark against the surrounding scenery, but is somehow not out of place. Balanced by the serenity. A picture perfect photograph. You stop, as if in thought. Turn and stretch out your hand. I see your face as if for the first time. This little girl has rosey cheeks from endless laughter and a crinkle already forming at the corners of her eyes. Her eyebrow quirked, is this mischeif or impatience? The cherry lips are, of course, tracing the outlines of a smile. Her hand shakes a little.
The piano halts.
Oh, if only to take her hand and merely to be so merry. Should it be so frightfully austere?