I loved watching the firedrakes burn the clouds. The way the great beasts transformed vapour to radiant colours, light and steam touched my soul. I didn’t know why they did it, and didn’t care, they just did.
When they’d finished and our atmosphere burned, I thought differently. We all did.
Author’s Note: I took this picture last night, which inspired the story. Sometimes the sky is more beautiful than any story. Last night, it was.
It is that last cool breath before the summer’s warmth. Field upon field of heaped greens sway in a ripening wind waiting for the sun to impart its own gold colouring upon them. Not quite foodstuffs, nor still seedlings dreaming of life, they prepare to change. As do we all.
Nothing more than stones
Rainbow colours in the rain
But they made me smile
The slanted sun made cauldrons of the chimney pots, the terrace's brick facades still black in the shadows. Millions of tiny raindrops hung from every available angle dotting my path with sparkling jewels, the dyke again a perfect stream. Every green leaf was a perfect green, every branch a liquid ochre. It might only have been a walk around the block, a perambulation to clear my head, but there was never a better time than after the rain.
Author's Note: We've just had a storm which lasted an hour. As soon as it finished, I was straight out. Perfect!
The image is from Pixabay because I forgot my phone. D'oh!
New life burst from the thought dead branches in plumes of bone-white like skeletal remains given a beauteous second chance. The world gleamed in their brave reemergence and so did I. Another year, another season in time’s circle had begun, and it still carried the colours of the last.
My overwhelming impression was one of colour. If ever a place wrapped you in the protective cocoon of butterfly wings, it was this. Tokyo blazed with vermillions, neons and citrines each more resplendent than the next, each devastating in conception. Beautiful I thought, as I tried to remember the moon.
It fell as a jaundiced cloud. An almost solid mush of marshmallow puce, the smog, fog or whatever it was heaved for five days enveloping the land. When it lifted, the sun beaming golden rays, I swore I'd never take yellow for granted again. The next day, it rained. Typical!
Filtering the day
Basking in warming rays