literature

Young Memoir 1

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The fire of autumn flickered ahead atop the treetops as I slowly walked along the lane; it was a beautiful day in Stratford. The river to the left had picked-up the black hue of winter, though it still struggled with every wave and ripple to peek its usual blue-green colour above the surface. The wild blue sky was coming to a tame state as it lulled into the silky white snow lit hue of winter.

The autumn fire would dwell no more as the northern winds stripped the fire in tatters of leaves, leaving the trees to shiver with the cold. I could feel my iris flex and retract as I painted a lonely frame around the scene.

My fingers loosened and slipped from the frame in a caress as I admired the positioning on the mantelpiece. As a smile danced upon my lips I moved to coil with my love before the fire stolen from autumn nights, held for my own passion as we ignored the storm outside.
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