Glowing hue and warmth, fire cracking and spitting within iron fringe. Portrait in hand, I sit silently and longing. Dew from the early mist has settled in a drifting world outside and paper-thin crystals have made abode on the edges of delicate window-frames. Inside, the hands of time have stopped. The sounds of old grandfather in the parlour have long since been heard. Its chime once grand in a place where angels shone down through lead glass and spread rays of blues and greens and purple beams abound. Often would the sounds of our darlings be heard as they skip and laugh and play with this wondrous miracle. He too would laugh from the veranda where he mix and swirl dreams and feelings into forms of colour and shape and expression. Immense beauty he saw and of that he would create an enchantment of his dreams on an untouched void.
But the world invaded ours.
Silence; the letters are no more.
Stillness, life's magnificence vanishes; darkness encumbers.
A cold and boggy field of many, of men perishing alone, a place where light and love is gone and voices lost to the expanse. His touch, his scent, his warmth, his strength; all lost to the earth, taken from my embrace. Lilly's now weep where he lay, dahlia buds droop and the maple leaves fall, all lost to the earth, far across the icy deep abyss, in a land so foreign to me as his touch is now. I sit and long for his return; a desire forever to be desired. The parlour now dark and cold, light far from its reach, leadlight long since gone and children's laughter no more; love and intimacy now a depth of dreams and loss a bleak reality.
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