A Fig Ripens The night is edged velvet wrapped in layers of soft feathers. Subtle moon flowers bask in secret corners of a cocktail swirled garden. Our midnight eyes are large and full of twinkle and there are smiles upon our faces as they search for friends, give them a finger hush in secret not to tell the beautiful sleepers almost ready to wake. A hand throws a scatter of stars, helter skelter through the trees, they shine on branches hanging in fire fly colours. They zone in pulsating bright light over blue in anticipation. Decoding the moon. Women with shining hair, clustered with pearl and rainbow combs prepare a cave with special care. Their skin soft as a glitter dust serenade A fountain scatters droplets of water in a mist of evening primrose, cushions surround heliotrope canopies while balls swing from an unconnected ceiling, offering gentle chimes as yielding water serches their curves. We are all lantern bright, delicate with palms touching. Oue upturned faces making this night a galaxy of celebration. Somewhere a night jar sings and a nightingale calls in return. We run outside laughing into the night to wake our dear ones, bring them in to delicious wine and plates of sweet figs.
Posted on: Wed, 19 Jun 2013 04:39:11 +0000
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