Cityscape

Maybe I peaked in childhood.

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Ode to Britain’s Sunshine

Today the sun woke up after a long and dreary hibernation. She warmed up the world with her rays. She flooded crystal light through nooks and crannies, brightening up what was once so dull. She ignited every blade of grass, and when you peered through the dry, wintry boughs, she set on emerald fire the bushes lurking between.

She set the fog ablaze, creating a mystic haze that was swarming with glittering fairies. She yawned, and her open mouth spilled gold onto window panes, shimmering starkly next to brilliant white and glorious red brick.

She brought colour into the world, is what she did. England without sunshine is a dreary grey slab. The cold sees fit to drape its frosty tentacles over the landscape, breathing air that is metal in its harshness, and making it so breathing is painful. England without sunshine is gum spots on pavements being too bright, and rubbish in the gutter claiming the centre of visual attention. England without sunlight is pink faces and rolling beer cans, its a world over which one has spilled dirty paint water, so all the colours have run together, merging into a desolate, muddy grey mix. England without sunshine is a dirty colourless filter over the world.

And the minute the sun beams down upon us, England is once again crowned in glory.

Oh, world, England is such a beautiful country. With her rolling hills, charming knotted trees and grass so green the emerald princesses are jealous. Even her little winding roads with the small wooden fences on the side, the fringes of grass over grown and the brambly hedges have a magical charm to them.

I had forgotten I lived somewhere so beautiful.

I hope the sun doesn’t wait so long again to show her face, less the desolation of winter seep back into life again. I know there is some rigorous scientific explanation behind happiness and sunshine, but I don’t want to think about that. I want to believe that the sunshine has magical powers, that it wields a paintbrush and a magic wand. That it turns squat houses huddled sombrely along an icy road in a grey stain into majestic, beautiful buildings with vibrant white trellises and bricks made from the finest clay and fired in the hottest ovens.

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They say only those descended from the elves can see the Dryads in this picture. Can you?

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It was for the first time in many years that she found herself facing the old grey building again, and she didn’t quite understand the tumult of feelings that overwhelmed her at that particular point.
The sky hung low with heavy clouds, warning of the impending storm that seemed to be rushing closer even as the seconds passed. A strange wailing wind came whistling towards her over the moor, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have supposed it to be the anguished howling of some accursed spirit. She stood where she was, however, for several more minutes, her clear hazel eyes passing slowly over the magnificent structure of such talented architecture. The stone carvings in the walls seemed to be, despite their expert glory, hung over with a dark cloak of foreshadowing doom.

Presently the young girl sighed, shifted her handbag a little higher from its slipping position on her shoulder, and stepped up to the massive front door. Her arm rose hesitantly, fingers curled as though to knock. Her eyes flitted towards the great knocker and that piece of information seemed to abate her hesitation for she jerked her arm quickly and lifted the knocker, dropping it as suddenly as she had lifted it, the loud sound that was produced echoing dismally about the empty courtyard around her.
She then stepped back quickly, almost fearfully, awaiting the outcome.

The wait seemed to drag a very long time, during which she was forced to accommodate rushing memories of a disturbing nature…
Flashes of what she knew awaited her behind those doors flitted across her line of vision; A dark, eerie corridor, the smell of strong disinfectant which couldn’t quite mask the metallic, sickly stench of the blood, a hand dragging her by the scruff of her neck, gnawing pain in her feet, the hat stand, with feet carved like a lion’s paws…
She shook her head quickly, blinking repeatedly, trying to block those memories from her brain. She wasn’t prepared for this; she wanted to back away..She was going to back away! She had to!

Her blood ran cold, suddenly, when she heard the slow deliberate footsteps echoing through that corridor…there was a rattling at the door..
And then it opened.