My Beautiful Stranger

The Sun basks in the warmth of his own radiance. He is not blinded but he blinds and the world colours and blushes from his gaze.

Now, lulled by a dwindling dawn chorus, the morning coaxes his eyes open. He wonders whether they are dreams, or memories, that linger and blur his vision, forming tears of sadness and of joy?

Remnants of delicacies and seductive sweet spoils of Dionysian indulgence lay scattered with reckless abandon. Sticky juices of dates and mango have coated what remained of a forgotten feast - walnuts, pistachios, marzipans - staining the discarded silk garments, strewn about as forgotten trophies. Only a full glass of wine stands untouched, beside an empty glass, on a golden tray.

He imagines he sees a woman walking away from him. Her bare white feet leaving frosty prints in her wake. Tendrils of iridescent hair escape from under her hooded cloak and fly untamed behind her.

Beside him, amongst the blades of soft green grass, rest tear-shaped snowflakes, their patterns forming kisses, and stories of love and heartache. A single marigold lay on the silk pillow next to his.

A chill of awareness mobilises him into swift pursuit of the beautiful stranger.

He follows the elusive lady to the waterfall at the edge of the valley. The frothy force of water emits angry sprays of warning, whilst its chilling beauty disarms him.

The woman turns and reaches out her arm, her soft transparent skin slightly bronzed in places which he had infused with kisses. In painful recognition, he too reaches out and has but a moment’s tender touch of her fingertips before she steps into the cascade of water. She disappears.

He follows and ignores the water's frosty burns. But he finds no-one in the waterfall or beyond - only a cavernous mouth that speaks no words, offers no answers, spills no secrets. He will recall only the penetrating chill, and the callous unseen force that thrusts his body backwards, through the gushing water, onto the rocks in the now raging river. This time he feels the cuts, within and without.

The search that ensues is long, desperate, and lonely, taking the Sun to other seasons. Cyclamens and snowdrops glow with gratitude as he crosses his seasonal boundaries, and no one ever wishes him away. But then they do not know that his heart is breaking.

Winter has arrived in her season. She now steps forward, and with a familiar chill filling her pores, she casts her soporific spell upon a world that needs to sleep.

Her heart sits like a white frosty pearl in her chest - alluring and hard. Only she knows the name of the barely discernible pulse that beats within. This pulse beguiles the snow from her weeping eyes and gives us winter and allows her to winter. She will winter hard this year.

This is ‘she’, in her full bloom. Loneliness is a silent ache as she does what only she can do. As her season swells and reaches its climax, she glances up at the clear blue winter sky to see the Sun smile down on her with rays of burning love. She feels his promise. He found her! She knew he would.

"You haven't finished your wine." He teases her.

Sequins of ice form on Winter’s forehead in recollection and … anticipation. She had experienced passion and joy. She had learned to love - on that first clandestine date.

"And you forgot the flower I gave you"

With that, a single marigold falls at her feet, melting the ice of the frozen lake upon which she stands.

"She takes after both of us you know?" Winter's reply is soft like a caress. She ponders on the tenderness and pride that swells her hard heart when she sees Autumn flourish.

Sometimes we feel Winter's soothing breeze as a tender touch of a mother's love. Then we know that she visits their spirited earth child. The fruit of her dalliance with the Sun.

Her beautiful stranger.