In autumn she came. She sat beneath the falling leaves, feared her memories would wither and fade with them. She gathered crumbling foliage to her, sympathised with their dried out existence, their willingness to release the world. Would she go with them? Did she have the nerve? The world was a husk without him.
In winter she came. She circled the monument, round and round, pacing out the minutes in a whirl of ephemeral flakes. She watched them melt on her hands, on her coat. Felt the stinging, fleeting touches on her cheeks. Would she ever leave the cold, the frozen silence? Could she melt and meld with the warmth of the world once more? Without him?
In spring she came. Pale light, tentative warmth urging blossoms forth. Undercurrents of renewal, returning to the world after restorative sleep. Light breezes stirred her hair, crowned her with shed petals . Drifts piled around her feet. She kicked at the past blossoms, scattering them to the winds, tucked a sprig behind her ear. Walked on… without him.
In summer she came. Bright eyed, lithe, quick to laugh when gazing into blue eyes, so new and unexpected, healing to her soul. They circled the monument, read the poem, inhaled the scent of roses and walked on, hand in hand… without him.
This picture was taken in my local park (Bathurst Park in Lydney). Around the top of the monument runs the 4th verse of Gods Garden by Dorothy Frances Gurney (link) and each side marks a season. The poem means a lot to me because it was the verse written in my leaving book by 'that teacher'. You know the one, the teacher who inspired you when you needed it most. Mr Lee encouraged my writing and I have never forgotten his kindness to a rather lost 10 year old.