DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,
DurAnorak
duranorak

I only mention this because one has just gone past the window, but the first thing I ever noticed - and isn't it the first thing everyone sees, on looking on another place? - were the butterflies, the size of gulls some of them, bright orange like their wings were dusted in paprika, so bright, bright against the jewel green leaves. The colours are not stronger here, only more real. If you think hard enough as you touch something, or think in the right way, perhaps, you can draw the colour out onto your hand where it lies strangely liquid like mercury, then falls whole to the ground, staining the grass.
I have changed the colours of whole flowerbeds when there was nothing better to do.

The weather continues charming, asking permission before it rains and apologising for the thunderstorms when its children are restless. It frightens the horse, but not us. Horses are less adaptable. Several times I have gone to the stables to comfort the shaking creature in the heart of a storm, only to look to the hills and see my love standing on the leadbrick wall, hands to the sky, hair streaming behind him, wings barely visible in the distance, through the rain. The storms do not frighten us, but I think the weather may charm him right out of my hands.

Idyllic is a word that springs to mind, apart from the cats (this is why we can't have children, of course) and the fields of poppies over the hill, that came when we arrived and made the others mistrust us. We are happy enough in our little house, with our temperamental makeshift garden that can't seem to choose between growing vegetables and children's toys. (It's still a little surreal, pulling up a potato plant to find a toy soldier growing from it. We kept one of them because as soon as he came out of the ground he began telling us about the French revolution, and I miss history lessons. Now we keep him in the biscuit tin and take him out whenever we forget the details of one of the battles. His name is Jean.)

There has been word that a series of underground detonations are being carried out, collapsing village after village in the surrounding area, but we are not worried. Our house is nowhere near the villages.
He has gone somewhere again, though. The last time he returned, wings torn, blood in his eyes, and would say nothing.

I am changing the colours of the window-box. There is nothing else to do but wait.
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