In the garden with Erik

The wind stirs the trees, the shrubs, the woody stems and it bids me keep quiet with its soft presence, its susurrations in silky shimmers of movement;

Steam from tea reaches upwards, whirling its way to mock summer heaven where blue skies and a bright star emerge from sporadic white covers;

Piano. Simple piano. Chords struck, the companions to single notes. Each crotchet strikes at my heart. The hammer releases a sensation of...

Calm. Melodic but mournful. It buries itself deep within me and, like discovered opal, my thoughtful essence surfaces and travels with the music, riding a griffin or Pegasus or some other beast of magic;

I have not moved but I am moved: by the wind and its playful fingers in my hair; by the notes composed by a Frenchman that lift me aloft; by the glory of the green surrounding me; by the high tweets of bright tiny feathered bullets punctuating the music of men.

To explain this? I can't.

I'm trying but I can't.

It is beyond. The beauty of this world is beyond me.

And yet, am I not part of it?

Auditory, visual, natural stimulation, hitting me - are you in there?

And I think, Yes, I am and I thank you for knocking.