There are some like me — who write about barn owls flying on cold wintry nights. Whence, they take flight on fluttering wings — whirling the sounds — flying over fields covered in layers of mist — leaving slipstreams in their wake — ghostly figures — that emerge out of dreams.
Some people write about green grass and sunlit brooks — memories of days of youth. Old men and women — the subjects of their fascination — reciting stories that captivate their imagination — tales set on cold grey days and wonderful golden summer’s eves. The rolling mills set next to the babbling waters, small meandering streams that flow in fields covered in yellow and green. The old village where life is lived at a snail’s pace where there is the occasional burst of merriment — celebrating the passing of the seasons — this be their marker of time.
Some dream of hope — memories of lost ones. Others remember deeds achieved and hopes retrieved, the longing of some to escape and heroes returning to change and sometimes decay. The acrimony felt by some, and the sadness felt for those slain, the rekindling of old flames. And love, dear love, the respite for some from the plight of their material existence.