Nightingale
It was early evening, and had been raining so the puddles
on the road reflected the new blue of the sky, the hedges
freshly wet steamed gently, the country lane suddenly
becoming the setting for a ballet behind a curtain of filmy
gauze...
Beyond the corner was a small wood where the silver birches
were newly in leaf, their slim trunks shone silver-gilt in
the fading light... primroses showed pale against their
dark leaves,
the delicate scent sweet in the air, and beyond a mossy
bank sheets of bluebells lay, a silken carpet of blue.
Leaning against a tree he sat at ease, his old tweed jacket
with worn cuffs sat comfortably on his slim shoulders...
eyes of a dreamer, deep blue to almost black... beside him
sat a small girl, fair haired, with eyes of deepest blue.
lighting his pipe he sat puffing contentedly, smoke
spiralling gently in the still air.
birds were singing their songs of dusk, the air loud with
delight...
and then... a fall of notes so pure that the small girl
became
stilled, her face raised to the song.
For a long time they sat in the dimming light, the trees
growing dark around them. the music weaving its spell of
enchantment,
the notes spilling out with such magical quality that
reality seemed to fall away
leaving only
contentment.
I can still recall every note.
Pim Claridge