Thursday, 8 October 2015

Storytellers: And The World Turns

The night is closing over us, gently, like a mother tucking her sleeping child into bed. The frosty breeze tickles our ears and whispers tales of where it's been and we listen in silence to it's stories, always ebbing and flowing, twisting and turning as it wraps itself around us and suddenly, as quickly as it came- it's gone.

Our cold hands lock together as we watch the stars waking; blinking their bright eyes and dancing in the inky blackness of the sky. The city below us moves in the sleepy way that cities do after dark. Bright lights move quickly along the streets of hard grey. The office blocks glow blue with the cold, harsh lights of after hours work and tiny dots of warm orange glow from windows.
Gradually they all fade away as people whisper goodnight, turn over and sleep.

We huddle together and watch our city, a place always bound by time, alarms and deadlines, as it closes it's eyes and sleeps. The rest of the world tiptoes by and blows a kiss our way.

Crickets play to us as the wind rustles through the dry leaves of the autumn trees above us. The creak of their branches is comforting, like a grandfather reading a story in a faded velvet armchair, a bowl of mint humbugs by his side. He smiles down at us with a kind, wizened look and reminds us softly that it's past our bedtime too. We don't belong in the dance of the night.

Time to go home.

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