The old man leaned on his walking stick tasting for the future with eyes clouded by cataracts. Water lapped beneath the bridge, a brutal sound that echoed the crust of snow covering dinghies drifting in hibernation. Little children played along the strand oblivious of that growing over them. The old man shook his head. Even their parents -- children to him -- missed the dance as they hurried to work. Their footfalls impatient as they dodged the man. They thought they were important. All trivialities.Through a haze, the old man watched his children, not physical children, his metaphorical children, reach out shimmering with their boughs covered with snow. It took so long for things to change. It had taken him a long time to realize that as he had raced to change his life daily like those on the street. It took standing here on the bridge leaning on his walking stick to feel the slow ebb of time arcing through life. Today he sensed a flowering of change. Limbs stretching across the river to link the East and West bank together.There would still be a long winter ahead of them. The old man could feel it in his bones, he knew it would eat through his coat and leave his knee clicking as he walked in the morning to check on his children. Yet, it was enough of a sign. He had hope for the future. And a vision of shared flowers.
Wow! Aidan - that was amazing! What a beautiful poetic piece of prose!
Thanks. I've got a series of two tree personifications going; wonder how the third one will go. :)
I can't wait to find out! ☼