Claire Everett

Talking in Tandem

The year, not unlike us, is in its second flush of youth. Summer, the hippy-child of Spring, runs barefoot with flowers in her hair and wherever she goes, we follow.

Girlish laughter from an upstairs window as we pass. Cascades of rose and clematis, almost too much for trellis and arbour to bear. Swallows, fleet as a seamstress' hand, stitching wheat to sky.

Seasons come and go, yet certainty is a mixed bag from the farmers' market. Deep within each riot of colour is the the softly-spoken memory of lilacs and wisteria that faded as they bloomed.

Lately, disagreements have been few and far between. Not only do we ride as one, but we've started to talk in tandem. This morning, somewhere along that narrow road, some quirk of thought, a cerebral slip of the tongue, popped into our heads in unison. Once spoken, we marvelled at the strangeness of it.

These days, whenever we're apart, in certain situations, I know just what you'd say. The voice in my head is yours. But then, half the joy in reading that well-loved book is knowing what happens on the other side of the page.

through half-closed eyes
poppies dab the fields
after Monet