The mingling scent of spring freesias and the aroma of rustic burning logs,
Impresses upon my imagination a long passed scene of dancing and laughter amongst the
sturdy palms and delicate bouquets.
The wood nymphs of old, among the fairytale cottages,
Their chimneys pluming smoke into the light and fragrant air.
The ladies laughter in matrimony with the warmth and perfume.
Cheeks glowing pink from the bonfire and gladdening wine.
Eyes meeting across the silhouetted lawn,
And moonbeams dancing between the amphitheatre of trunks.
Like an audience, the Palms watch and bow in the breeze to the sound of singing,
As the music embraces the fragrant notes of such a haunting evening.
Who are these people from a different time?
Do they see me gaze upon their joyous abandon?
Do they know my longing to join them in their mysterious hour of secret spring festivities?
To escape for just a moment from this sophisticated age of social isolation,
And instead feel the heartbeat of souls content to live their entire lives within this glorious moment.
Walking home one spring evening, the wonderful scent of freesias mingling with a log fire, ignited a fantasy of a festive time long since passed.