Fleet ‘Am I still real for you?’

He felt her hand press his own. Reassurance. Affirmation. He never really knew.

Each time anew.

The grass was over grown again. Few people came here. Even fewer knew the place as he did. The immense skies, a constant theatre of changing clouds, above the great moving silence of the sea. And behind the great berm, the haven for all with wings and calling, the lagoon of calm and unruffled waters that mirrored the beauty of the place.

They stepped over the low, now dry, run of the spring, the damselflies darting busily, scooping a myriad of nats, clouds of activity,in the late afternoon warmth and sun.

The kissing gate led further, as the pathway edged the mud and marram grasses at the edge of the unkempt abandoned fields.

She held his hand tighter. They were coming to their place, a refuge from the winds that twisted the trees in knots and branches, all bent and wrapped in invisible hands from the westerlies that had pushed ship and sail along the channel behind the Isle of Portland, for generations.

The path was mostly overgrown here. The fence rotten and fallen, a few sheep grazed upon the borders, seagulls cried overhead and the wind sighed and fell, sighed and fell, ripening across the rippling wheatgrass.

‘Here,’ he heard her whisper, ‘here will do just fine.’ Emily’s voice was as light as the breeze. He could feel her summer dress ripple against his bare legs, almost smell her perfume as they sat down together on the rug he had brought with him from the car.

‘John,’ she whispered, softly into his ear, ‘John, can you see me again, am I still real for you?’

Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
[email protected]