Sunrise

Dew, freshly formed, gently rolling off

                                                                                                            and     

                                                                                                                        over

                                                                                                                                    onto the grass. Bringing with it, sunlight life.

Nona Hora

Sol's summit, its beam offering a broiling embrace to

                                                                                                                                                the earth below.

Wind chasing trams (rumbling). People chasing trams (grumbling).

Sunset

The blushing embers emanating from the glowing sphere hanging in the sky: its yellows fading into orange, then red, then oblivion.

Its brevity only amplifying its beauty.

Midnight

In Sol's absence, Luna rises,

waves ebbing

and flowing

Until they evaporate-

                                                            Until the sun rises again.

I write because I-

When the poets write of love, they often write of Eros; Cupid's arrow makes a good quill.

Yet, other loves exist; not quite the strong longing for a lover, nor the warmth of a mother's loving embrace, but one of a gentle tenderness, one that you might feel on a day like New Years Eve. The soft glow emanating from street lamps; a gust of wind gently sweeping by, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Captured in these miniscule moments is an untainted, untethered bliss that will be yearned for after it's gone, briefly satiated by re-lived, fragmented memories. 

Last year was your first New Year’s abroad but it held the same magic and wonder of all the years before.

Music plays from a speaker somewhere but  the sound is cloaked by a million voices, families unfurling mats onto the grass, adults talking whilst their children run amok. A father takes out a camera and taps someone's shoulder, gesturing to his family and then to the camera. They smile, a click barely audible as the light flashes. (The children aren't quite looking at the camera, but that's what memories are made of).

The sky darkens and the show begins as people capture the explosions of light overhead. The sky is tinted with colours of red then blue and then yellow. As darkness envelopes the smoke trails, the family begins to pack up. Whilst leaving, the father thanks the stranger once more for the photo.

Though the temperature begins to chill, your heart remains warm. Getting up to leave with the crowd, the streets now filled with people, you walk slowly to take in the sights. The smiling strangers, singing in a language you do not understand, yet their joy needed no translation. You see them begin to dance and you can't help but join in for the brief moment that your paths cross. On the way home, you meet a dog (it was more like the dog coming up to you). You learn that it sheds a lot at home, and that it loves fireworks. You learn that the owner has been to your home country and you complain about the weather back home for a bit. As the conversation dies, you turn to leave but realise you never did learn their name (you never will). You stop in your tracks to turn around but their silhouettes are already retreating around the corner. A brief sadness washes over you, but you continue walking nonetheless.

Before long, you've arrived home and familiarity greets you. It feels all at once like you've never left and like you've been gone for ten years. You send texts to your family and friends back home, wishing them a Happy New Year, playfully apologising for celebrating it without them and before them. You read their replies before heading off to bed, the shine and shimmer of New Years' waning.

Then one morning, you decide to write it all down because how else would you archive these small windows of  joy – tender, pure, genuine joy?

And so I write; because it is the only way I know how to convey love.