Summer mornings

Opera is one of the humanity’s most beautiful and complex inventions. It fills you with happiness. You come out of the concert hall with a big smile on your face and you grin all the way to the train station, until the first layer of warmness wears off. For hours you hear the music ringing in your mind. And then, at the end, it’s like drinking a very aromate tea during winter…you feel the warmness leave your body. This is how I felt this Friday and Saturday: magical!

Summer mornings in Haslemere are like beauty,

It slowly grows, but it will burn away at some point:

The spark of the sun,

The rise of the light,

The flutter of wings through bushes,

A feathery soprana above your head,

A hush of brown, a squirel zooms by,

And it rises,

A crescendo of nature,

An explosion of sky colours

A stage of unspeaking actors…

And it stops.

The lights glow and slowly retreat,

Sopranas grow tired,

Squirels dive back into the trees

The show is over.

The first humans make their appearence…


Dawn creeps in unnoticed, 

I get out of the shower and throw myself onto the bed,

Outside crystals of sunlight float into the air.

They spread out and get to the most dark corners of the room.

A bush moves and out comes a fox.

I gasp.

Such grace,

Ginger fur touched by the orange light,

Black spots on the ears moving all around,

A tail embraced by grass,

Two pairs of eyes following the sunset,

And there is such understanding in those wild green eyes,

As if they would talk to the sunset,

The light dies,

The eyes pursue the dying friend,

And they drop.

The fox turns and disapears.



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