Irein
November 12th, 2007, 06:55 PM
It was nearly twelve that night. The moon had just risen, very golden and novel, lying over the hill and watching vividly, powerfully; gazing through the maze of an ash tree’s naked limbs. She walks curiously, becoming part of the soft, short grass and gentle, melodic wind.
Listening intently, she hears the stream’s whispering giggle as it flows past her; such a sneaky snake sliding beneath her feet and moving onwards into the beyond. The birds, singing quietly their lullabies amongst kin; an owl, perched high among the trees with an echoing hoot.
She halts, aware of a dim, thriving light all around. Upon the dark, stirring trees endless pink buds and petals all delicate and blurred were being stung to life by the mesmerizing moonlight. From this moment she felt a bit of companionship, as if a million spirits had glided by and settled between blissful sky and fragile ground; opening and shutting their wings on a level with her eyes.
In the wondrous, still, fragrant beauty she almost lost memory of why she had come to the forest. The soothing glamour which had clothed the earth all day had not disappeared now that night had fallen, but only transformed into this new transient form. She moved on through the thicket of stems and leaves covered with that live, powdering brightness until she reached the large cherry blossom tree. No mistaking that, even in the dark, nearly twice the height and size of any other, and leaning out towards open meadows and stream.
Under the deep branches she stood still again, to listen. The same sounds exactly. She places her hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose sleek, mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at her touch. And there rose the busy chatter of the little trout stream, whereas the moon was flinging glances through the bars of her branchy prison. The blossom on a level with her eyes seemed to grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious pink beauty more and more a part of her suspense. She plucks a fragment and held it close—four petals. Sacrilege to pluck cherry blossoms—silky, sacred, young blossoms—and throw it away.
Then suddenly, she hears a shuffle within the leaves not of her own, and so, leaning against the trunk, she presses her hands to its mossy sides from behind, and holding her breath. A defying wind shouts out and guides the many blossoms that wish to take its first flight. As the sweet petals befall swiftly onto the unsoiled earth, she finally saw her beloved; his dark form part of a soaring tree, his flushed face part of its blossom; so motionless, and peering towards her, smiling. She whispered: “Brendan!” and held out her hands.
Listening intently, she hears the stream’s whispering giggle as it flows past her; such a sneaky snake sliding beneath her feet and moving onwards into the beyond. The birds, singing quietly their lullabies amongst kin; an owl, perched high among the trees with an echoing hoot.
She halts, aware of a dim, thriving light all around. Upon the dark, stirring trees endless pink buds and petals all delicate and blurred were being stung to life by the mesmerizing moonlight. From this moment she felt a bit of companionship, as if a million spirits had glided by and settled between blissful sky and fragile ground; opening and shutting their wings on a level with her eyes.
In the wondrous, still, fragrant beauty she almost lost memory of why she had come to the forest. The soothing glamour which had clothed the earth all day had not disappeared now that night had fallen, but only transformed into this new transient form. She moved on through the thicket of stems and leaves covered with that live, powdering brightness until she reached the large cherry blossom tree. No mistaking that, even in the dark, nearly twice the height and size of any other, and leaning out towards open meadows and stream.
Under the deep branches she stood still again, to listen. The same sounds exactly. She places her hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose sleek, mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at her touch. And there rose the busy chatter of the little trout stream, whereas the moon was flinging glances through the bars of her branchy prison. The blossom on a level with her eyes seemed to grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious pink beauty more and more a part of her suspense. She plucks a fragment and held it close—four petals. Sacrilege to pluck cherry blossoms—silky, sacred, young blossoms—and throw it away.
Then suddenly, she hears a shuffle within the leaves not of her own, and so, leaning against the trunk, she presses her hands to its mossy sides from behind, and holding her breath. A defying wind shouts out and guides the many blossoms that wish to take its first flight. As the sweet petals befall swiftly onto the unsoiled earth, she finally saw her beloved; his dark form part of a soaring tree, his flushed face part of its blossom; so motionless, and peering towards her, smiling. She whispered: “Brendan!” and held out her hands.