Golden flecks glisten and shimmer on broken ripples and waves, lapping splashing, swishing past sludging or rushing and burbling, timeless in its memory, silent but full, what history has it seen?
Whispering through airy trees, rustling eerie leaves, screeching swifts make their nets in golden clouds, black specks in the summer sky, fleeting past the aspens and planes found on the weed winding reed bound river bank. Angers, its dusty alleys and bourgeoisie houses, burnt out council estates and green parks, the supermarkets and specialist stores a Ying and Yang molded together.
We chase that elusive wind called success when all the time it is in us. Thinking that what others think of us is important when in reality it is what we think of ourselves that counts. Oh to be alive, in the summertime, with the wind in our hair. Those moments picking fruit, strawberry picking or gooseberries, making jam with mum, or with Tom, when winter seems so far away.
Spotted along the Loire, those monuments abandoned millennia ago, standing mightily ivy and moss covered, huge dolmens or menhirs, splitting the landscape or marking territory, or aiding communication, or religious spots, marking death or long forgotten gods.
What it means to be human? To leave those marks, make mistakes, love, lose, create and change, even die. Pass on the knowledge, or watch it get lost in the mists of time, in the long grass of history, leaving questions and conundrums for the future.