All the World Loves Lovers...

Sun's out; the wind is fresh. A near perfect day for this time of year. A near perfect time for a cold-blooded examination of love. It's been a while since I teased out its feathers as I dip my toes in the icy river.

     
From time to time I do wonder about falling in love again - the Big-ee, a romantic dream fulfilled, end of story, credits gliding down the screen. But I've been wondering for some time, 'is that really my story?' I've had the violins, the orchestras teetering at the edge of the mountain, that sunset to end all sunsets. Sometimes nowadays I just feel like I've got better things to be getting on with.

    
Plus, there's always after the violins. That morning when we wake to a turned back on a greying sheet, rain streaming the windows. When we realise the bird has flown. When the postman leaves the side door open and wind rattles through the house. It is colder than we've ever known before. And that cold seeps into our bones and leaves us shaking.

     
It's happened to us all. It's the point when you leave or you learn what it really means to love. I guess.

I've had the best and the worst. Maybe lived it all too soon. Now the tape reel winds round again and I'm left wondering: Can I really fool myself into believing in true love? Isn't it like pretending the chopper of death isn't really coming? Can I really do monogamy again? Can I even be bothered with the story when I already know the ending? It'll end in tears as my Mum would say.

     
But none of this makes me unhappy. It may all sound dark and gloomy but in truth, right now, my heart is shooting up with the green buds and leaping about with the floppy-eared bunnies. The sounds of spring are all around me, and they're like music. But I still wonder about these things. Hey, I'd have to be blind as a mole to not.

     
All the lovers of the world cry 'We are different!' No you're not. You're just not there yet. At that point of truth where you test whether that love is enough or not. Nine times out of ten, it isn't, it can't be. It takes a lot to love. And not just willpower and an earnest heart. It takes a special something extra that can't be manufactured, cultivated. It's there or it ain't. I've had it. And I'm not sure I want it again.

Devil's Dyke

It’s the first heat of the year, all orange on my shoulders, glowing in my cheeks. Grass is soft under my hands; the hill is cows and lambs chewing on their mother's soft underbelly. We pass ponies, bumble bees, a shrew in the undergrowth. Skylarks. Kites bent high in turquoise. My back is hot, my face whipped cool by spring wind. I can see my breath.

     
It's majestic up on the hill, the yellow flowers of gorse bushes drawing blood on my finger. Then a pub with babies on strings, dogs with big fur, yapping; men guzzling plastic pints of ale. I nibble on oatcakes, basil leaves and sometimes fingers. The land arches like a back, folds like a handful of secrets.

     
Then I am walking back, lost, wondering whether to worry that I am lost. The moon is up on my left side. As long as it's on our left, we'll find our way home. But we're turning this way, that way... left, right, all about. I look up to my left and there it is... a snowy apparition in all that sunshine.

We pass horses galloping, erratic, tossing their riders. We pass the pylon and the path that disappears into nowhere. We pass the side of the hill that looks like skin. I want to stick out my finger and touch it, taste it under my tongue, bite it.

     
A six o' clock chill creeps under my jacket. Then we're back to bricks and tarmac and some man jogging. Gardens with fountains spitting tiny jets of water. A door slashed with Happy Birthday in a gold plastic streamer, five children inside, sitting in the shadows. I stand, feet flat on the pavement, the sun once again blinding me.

     
It's the end of Sunday afternoon. I ride the packed bus the rest of the way home, sore muscles and something soft under all these bones. It radiates out from my clothes, this softness; it nuzzles up to other passengers. Of course, they never notice. I walk up a cold street. Push open the door. Slip into a warm pub full of people. Order coffee. Sit down; lift the mug to my teeth. Hot liquid hits my throat, sliding warmth down my chest. I feel it here in my belly.