Friday, 4 November 2011

On a red carpet of poppies

I stepped through the hidden glen like an angel, my feet did not dare disturb the fleshy florals through which I trod. On a red carpet of poppies, but the plants were much more lushious. Sunlight lit the coven like a spot light on stage, turning the tendril grasses translucent and light. White flowers peppered the edges, jasmine could be scented but not seen. It was scacred ground. It could turn you away if it wanted to, you'd feel out of place and abandoned, as though you were intruding on a funeral or left out of some great joke. But I felt at home, no, not home, part of it, of the glen.
I felt as though I could swing through the trees without effort, despite my lowly strength. I could fly, without wings and swim though the tropic riverlets as a mermaid..
This was a place of magic but I could not stay. To stay too long wold spoil the deity, the euthoric feeling that was attached to the place. I would leave now, perhaps forever. But I would visit often. In my dreams and memories the little meadow, a gazebo of entwined vine and branches. It would always be deliccously beautiful, I glutton enough to drink it in. It would not tire, it would remain as so.
Then perhaps, just perhaps I would return, an old and thought aged woman, my body bowed to time. I would stand at the edge of the gazebo; and walk on a red carpet of poppies. Perhaps my hair, no longer the water gold of yonder, would be silve; long and light. As a spot light of butter sunshine lit before me translucent grass. And this I would say, on a red carpet of poppies in a world only known to few,
'Hello dear friend; I am home, lets make but one of two.'
-By Madelyn. C. Lardner

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