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Beneath The Willow Tree.

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Sat at his writing bureau, looking out of the window, his eyes fell upon the garden below. With the spring came the colour, and through the morning light that shimmered and shined his gaze fell upon this, and fell upon that. Little buds of yellow and red, encircles by buds of white, were grouped in patches here and there, and day by day they were bringing the garden to life. While overhead a canopy of pink blossom hung from the trees, and every so often the garden would be showered with the petals, as a gentle breeze played with them, danced with them.


Glancing to the far end and into the shadows of the willow tree, he could just make out the figure of the prize of the garden, silent and still and hidden from the sunlight.

He watched for a moment, he daydreamed a little, he smiled with a glistening eye, and then turning away, he withdrew a sheet of writing paper from the top right hand corner compartment before him, and placed it on the padded leather insert. Then with one more glance out of the window, he picked up his favourite Montegrappa Fortuna fountain pen that echoed his character and style.




Little Flower.


Breathe my little flower

Open yourself up to the light,

Unveil the beauty you hold within,

And stand tall with pride.


Live my little flower,

Open yourself up to life,

Be nurtured by the warmth of the sun,

And glitter through the night.


Rise my little flower,

Lift your head to the sky,

For you might be rooted to the ground,

But in your dreams you can fly.


And shine my little flower,

Shine brighter than a star,

For you are the princess of the garden,

The lady of the park.


Cause I know you sit alone,

And I know sometimes you cry,

I know sometimes you wish,

You didn't have to suffer life,

And no one can make that promise,

That you will escape this torment,

They can only offer you comfort,

Even if it is only for a moment,

But with a little bit of courage,

And a step in the right direction,

You will blossom in the sunshine,

As you tip-toe over the horizon,

And there you will find the beauty of life,

Gifts to be unwrapped,

A smile for every occasion,

And never the need for looking back.


Dance my little flower,

Sway while caressed by the breeze,

Give those who doubt time to see,

In you there is something to believe.


Sing my little flower,

Let your little voice be heard,

Cause it is not always about what you say,

Sometimes it is just the sweetness of the words.


And remember my little flower,

Always be who you are,

Be true to yourself and your nature,

From your first day till your last.




Picking up locating and slipping the cap back on to protect the nib, he placed the fountain pen to the side and gently blew on the written page before him, to quicken up the drying of the ink. An inter feeling of pride slowly showed itself within his smile, as he glanced over the words once more.

Outside a landing bird shook a branch that scratch the windowpane and with it, it drew his attention towards the garden outside.

He watched the bird for a moment, smiling briefly at the sweetness of its little song, before it glanced to him and then flew away. The branch shaking momentarily once again, as it shook to a stop.

He glanced to the back of the garden and the shadow of the willow tree, which now with morning slowly creeping towards midday, was splintered with light like veins upon the darkness.

The figure was gone, she was gone.

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