No man is an island
No man is an island but the seas are deep and people can get lost and sink to the bottom while others are dealing with their own storms or basking in the sun between them. No man is an island but even islands cry their salt tears into the salt sea. No man is an island and the sea is harsh and cold before it is merciful, crushing hopes and dreams in waves of tears. No man is an island and the sky will change with the seasons and the dawn of each new day or the sunset of each night. No man is an island and no man lives without pain, all are unique and the same. No man is an island but times change with the sea and the sun still shines behind the clouds.
& I thought I should post the prequel to Ivory, Ghosts and Snow Geese
A Gypsy Face
I lived in a dark world, a bleak ever changing, never ending pilgrimage, a journey with no beginning and no end. The only mark of time was the seasons killing one another in a perpetual succession of futile death and rebirth. The summer’s heat kills the spring then a slow decline into autumn. The frost and snow of winter downs the last decaying leaves before it is in turn melted away by spring.
It was spring when I first saw her. She wore apple blossoms tangled in her ebony hair and her face shone with all the life and radiance of the season. The whole world was suddenly new and bright. Her name, Bethany, played across my mind as the summer bloomed and her face haunted me as the autumn leaves fell into winter. By the winter of the following year we were together like two snow geese huddled defiantly on the shore of a frozen lake. Left behind by the waves of migration and held fast by the bitter winter winds. I remember these months as a brilliant beautiful world in themselves. A frozen road bounded by snow covered fields and whitened icy forests. All around us was bleak, cold, dead, waiting for spring and the two of us the only life in the swirling winds. We were more alive because of it. The winter melted away into a spring twice as beautiful as the first and again her hair was tangled with blossoms and her face shone like a beacon of joy. The snow became slush and melted away. Finally the birds returned their cheerful songs echoed around the newly forming buds. The old horse plodded on and the road rolled slowly below us. This time too seems like a dream, my happiness reflected in her hazel eyes, the radiance of spring. Everything was new and fresh and beautiful.
We stopped travelling, sold the old horse and settled down in a mining community. The land around us is picturesque with great wheat fields and rolling green hills covered in open woods.
I got a job as a miner. I descended deep into the belly of the earth to gouge out the black sooty coal. Down in the darkness I think of her face shining like a lamp and my heart fills with joy as my lungs fill with dust at each breath. At each crack of my pick I will think of her voice playing across the miles and miles of beautiful country we passed through. At each hard won lump of dirty coal I will hear her name as I first heard it, beautiful and mysterious like a word from a strange land. Beyond me, but at the same time a name as familiar as my own.
Life is better now, money comes in and soon we can afford to be wed. But I will never forget that year on the road, just the two of us and the old horse plodding on. Spring will come and we will marry and she will have apple blossoms tangled in her ebony hair.