Thunder rumbles again.
The day has darkened and rain is falling. Pale silver threads against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June. Only days away from the solstice. Here in leafy England, the nights will soon begin their slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
The sun shone bravely this morning. In my secluded, fragrant garden, I sipped tea and listened to bees buzzing, to the gurgle of water in the pond, and to an insistent song in my head that would not stop playing.
And now, at my ancient oak desk in this far more ancient room, on this quiet, directionless, stranded afternoon, I cannot remember the words.
I want to write, but I have no words at all.
I notice I have just absent-mindedly typed your name onto the page. I stare at it in pleased surprise. It is as if you had just whispered my name. I delete it. You are beyond secrecy. Only you will ever know about you.
The thunder is closer.
It sounds like warfare, the moving of celestial furniture, the roaring of mythical gods. Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all.
I think about you. Not in any structured way. Where you are. What you are doing. What you are wearing. What you are thinking.
I hope, hopelessly, it is about me.
I think about your beauty, your body, your eyes, your mouth, the elegance of your shoulders, the shape of your breasts. For a few moments, my mind wanders down paths divinely carnal. I sigh at my own predictability. And at the holding of my breath.
You are so far away. Always.
The thunder is passing. Weakening, Grumbling and groaning in a more distant part of the sky. The rain is easing. The single bird has become a small chorus.
I stare at my page. I have written nothing.
But, sweet angel, I wrote it for you.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic
Written in a different June, long ago.
Art by Thomas Saliot