Leslie Keith
steal away
Spring dissolves in an instant to summer as the heat descends as silence over the evening. The water-meadow is dank. Pungent with the smell of growth. So different from the sterile winter where cold hibernates the senses. The moon, the colour of apricot, hangs heavy in the sky. Full as if to burst. And a soft warm mist absorbs the valley.
Through the darkness a flotilla of swans glide the running water. Gracile. Low beneath the bridge. Silent as if embarrassed by their blanched purity. And I am standing on the bridge holding a single flower. Stolen. To prove all of this to you. And I think maybe. Maybe we should wait for summer to pass. Wait for autumn. Wait for the water to slow before we take our move
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