The Talking Field

The field was long and grassy. It was filled with thick-stemmed dandelions and sunshine marigolds that twinkled like stars in the sky of green. The tree's leaves were defined and vividly green-they were beautiful enough to be in heaven. The little sweetpeas would twirl like distant wedding dresses. There was also a row of tall elegant trees that were always lemon yellow, they grew fine red-tinged flowers on their leaves. But the field was more glorious when the sun flooded the place, the flowers would be crested with pink light and each blade of grass would be rimmed with fire. The moon was beautiful too in this field, the moon was like a dancing elf, who would sing to the flowers in her silvery tones and stroke the darling roses in streaks of silver.

There was a little mother in one of the corner's of the dale, she was an elegant apple blossom with feathery leaves that would play in the daytime and return to her in the night. But at night her beauty was ineffable, each of her petals were silver sparkles are her dark wooden figure. She had lots of kids too, her kids were small samplings of silver stars. She would protect them in the rain, shield her leaves on them, so her babies wouldn't get injured.

There was a narrow ravine that meandered through the place, it was blessed with gems of bright orange-they were small fish that carried the beauty of a peacock and held the grace of a swan. It was crowded with smooth sheets of green, on top of them, feathers of delicate white lilies slept.

I used to sit with springtime poems. And thank the field for sharing the beauty with me, in the winter, I'd stare at the blades of grass and their fuzzy coats of snow with hot cocoa in one hand and a biscuit in another. In winter everything was coated in frosty white, there was a small group of flowers that refused to leave. They sat sheltered in icy frost that coiled around them like a mirror. It would bounce their colours in several directions.

I was selfish, isolating myself in this beautiful bubble of peace when out there, there was poverty and hunger. If I peeked through the boughs of the cedars I could see dozens of children, trying to find crumbs of stale bread. I could see old ladies, wrapping themselves in rags to keep warm. I could see lines of people winding outside small, full shops that were offering free meals. I was lucky that I hade food in these times.

But sometimes this beauty failed to whisk me away to another world. I would beg it to try at least, but "out there'. The sadness was too strong, it creeped out to me and soaked into my veins. I would cry and be awfully sad that I had to endure these times.

But this field couldn't have stayed so pretty during the War, it must've have tried to fall back into the ground. All those pretty flowers must've been scared, of the bombs and wreckage.

I can imagine it, the Mother apple blossom all wrinkled and dull. The dandelions bare and the grass brown and dry. I can imagine those cedars without there beautiful leaves. I can imagine the trees falling, and lighting up with red flames. The ravine would be dry and fishless.

But the garden must've survived it. They must've got over the loss of the dead plant and tried to rebuild their home. Didn't they? I assured myself they did. And sat in the grass around a bunch of mayflowers encircling me like a shield of reassurance and peace.

How can this be so beautiful when out there people are dying of starvation, little white crests of piles of ashes are floating in the air. Homes are destroyed. Kids are running the streets, not as kids should. Kids should experience happiness and love- not now, that doesn't happen.

***

My Aunt said we had to go. Where? I don't know. She failed to mention it. She said it's going to be safer. What can be safer than my place? She said it is strictly like I was some little kid who was new to the world. I nodded along and started to pack.

I cried a few tears into the ravine. The water was damp and fresh, as I pushed my hand into it, I could feel mossy rocks and small shiny stones that were indented with designs that looked like rings of planets. I filled a spare glass bottle with the water. I apologized several times before picking a lily, which was purple with a kiss of sliver in the middle. I put it in my hair, aware that I was going to save it in Grandpa's heavy books at home.

The buggy drove, moaning across the bumpy cobblestone drive. Through a net of trees, which showed me the garden in the dew clear areas. The sun was rimming everything in a deep red light, it was bouncing crimson along the harbour waves ahead that lapped across the sands. My eyes were glued to the garden which was a miraculous painting of colours. There were orange flowers like the rine of a tangerine that was sucking the sun's light between their petals. They looked truly like glowing oranges- that lit up the surrounding grass with red. The lisping trees fell, side-to-side their tops crowed in a ribbon of ruby silk.

"Thanks for keeping me alive." That's all I could think of. I really would go and rant all my problems to the place. It was motherly, it would comfort me in my darkest days and bask with me in joy when I was happy. But I had done enough. It didn't deserve much more.

So I kept touching my hand in the little bottle, conscious that the water would soak into my finger and also conscious that I was wasting a little part of the field.

"Goodbye." I cried, to those smiling faces that sat, unacknowledged. They were nature's miracles.