This week I am taking part in Jamie’s Week 17 Photo Challenge: Hope
Here’s the link to her blog: https://bluedaisyz.wordpress.com/
I found out about the weekly photo challenge via Melissa’s lovely blog The Aran Artisan: http://thearanartisan.com/
The photos are all taken by me in my local Country park which is looking particularly lovely at the moment, hope you enjoy them. Here’s the entrance that I use quite often, and below the photo is the beginning of my little story HOPE, inspired by these thought provoking images.
HOPE
The open gateway beckons like a warm welcome yet it sits in dappled shadows as if mocking me. My troubled thoughts are silent, yet the voice of my heart pounds, a flurry of quiet spasms grips my chest, tightening with each breath that I take. The lunchtime joggers run past, hard and fast, unaware that my breathing is competing with the pace of their laboured breaths in an unacknowledged contest.
I reach the first tiny viewing platform. The fluffy clouds float by on a gentle breeze as if trying to reassure me, doing their best to alleviate my earlier anxiety. The reflection of their inverted shapes slip into the water, a childlike candy floss creation, of delicate hope lifting my rising fear.
Then as I progress further, a darkened branch lays in wait for the unsuspecting visitor, threatening the tranquil scene. It claws reach out, a trap ready to close around its poor, unfortunate, next victim. It refuses to touch the man-made lake, nor does it rest, or disturb the seamless surface of the water. It is as if the trap-like branch is independent of any control.
The fluffy clouds now look like iceberg reflections, but even this does not seem likely, as lush green pond vegetation escape the water’s surface near them, promising a possibility, the likelihood of fresh hope. To my left I see a fragile, flowering branch.
I turn a corner and the cloud all but disappears, the sky so blue, and the scene so tranquil that I gasp in surprise.
I walk on by and find that I had been too hasty, I have been tricked, the clouds refuse to let me go. The dark approaching shadow clings to the right of my viewpoint, joining in with the clouds refusal, a reminder that all has not yet been spoken.
It stretches its shadowy fingers into my pathway creating a dappled carpet to guide me but I stand back, hesitating.
The clouds begin to spill into the water once again, their substance lost in their liquid home, they disperse like frightened suggestions. I stare at my phone as if it is an enemy. For a moment I am tempted to drop the phone into the water, to let it sink, so I do not have to confront this moment, but instead I clutch the phone to me and continue on my way.
I catch the sweet smell of flowers drifting from the sensory garden. Their aroma is light, almost imperceptible. Snatches of blue sky peek out amongst the blooms, like stolen handkerchiefs, waving, waiting for a conclusion. I continue to the Visitor’s centre, a haven full of thirsty, hungry strangers, unconcerned, and unaware, of my rising anxiety.
The stairs leading up to the viewing point are marred with the noughts and crosses of uncertain shadows, but no matter they are only playing a game to confuse me.
Then and only then do I become aware of the full view of the lake. It comes to greet me with a panorama of endless hope. Its pink and white fluffy clouds smile, reassuring me that I am not to worry, all will be well. At last, I have the courage to type in the number. It rings, and rings, and then at last my mother answers. She is not expecting me to ring right now. She tells me about her hospital appointment, “Yes, it is not the worst news, but it is not the best, I will need an operation, but thankfully my bloods do not suggest cancer.” The relief floods through me, like a thunderous waterfall, tempered by my disquiet at the word, surgery. I relax a little as I hear her next words. “The doctor asked me if I would mind having students present at the operation.” I hear a faint smile in her voice as she says, “How was I to mind when I wouldn’t even know they are there?”
Bye for now!
Marje @ Kyrosmagica xx
© Marjorie Mallon 2015 – aka, Kyrosmagica.
Words and photos, good or bad, are my very own!
M J Mallon YA Author and Poet 