freewrite

On times like this, doesn't it sometimes feel darnedly difficult to keep this scrivener self of yours in sync with the pianist perennially practising in your mind, recording ideas-silences-crickets welcoming sunset with their all-for-one and one-for-all steadfast hymns casting a life-affirming lifebuzz across the sky celebrating the sheer joy of being alive in the company of kindred souls living their lives on this planet of ours – from marigold-brightened summer to rainwashed monsoon evenings, from grief-shrouded autumns with leaves of brown bereft underfeet remembered only in their final goodbyes as gardeners smile to themselves thinking of their grandchildren sweeping them away from their beds in the shadow of their mother-tree

Pitch-perfect dirge of soulfelt grief enlivened by their unsurpassed courage as they rode the wind in yesternight's raging storm chin-up, fearless, and free – 

Grant me a brief, two-blink-old minute of silence, reader mine. Just like the court of Hrothgar marching to the sea in unison one grey midwinter morning a long, long, time ago had anointed their demon-slaying hero in his favourite suit of armour, hands crossed across his chest still holding the broadsword shaped and sharpened in forges glowing with superheated streams of the finest Damascene 

Unheard of and impossible to find hereabouts until that band of diehards feared even by the Aesir had bellowed defiant laughter warmed by the fearless blood in their veins, and sailed right through the northern mists to a continent where even they were afraid because of Sol's unrelenting, baking-clay-to-terracotta desert fury.