Sunday, 25 September 2016

In dreams we fly without wings or the fear of falling.






In The Valley of Imaginings wingless flight is a seasonal activity.

It comes in moments of wakeful wonder, as naturally as breathing.

The diving and the swooping are fast.

So deliciously fast.

The feeling is much like that of swimming without water.

Without getting wet.

A fact that pleases Ma Baggs greatly.

But, Ma, trifle maker extraordinaire, is a diversion.

Another tale for another day.








Simply by surrendering to the wild winds of Autumn with a heart inflated by hope visitors to the valley can rise up to fly above the tree tops,

above the red roof tops of the crooked little houses

and if they choose,

at night, they can fly among the stars.












As the colours turn on the trees there is an equal slow turning to thoughts of comfort.

Everything softens in Autumn.

The houses perched high on the windswept hill visibly, tangibly relax to welcome and embrace those who forage in the valley below.








It isn't perfect.

Nothing ever is.

But as the things of the earth retreat and the days are pressed back by the encroaching dark there is still beauty and hope and love.

Always love.