We are spirits whose love is boundless. We shoot past the stars towards the abyss and into the oblivion without wondering or waking from the dream that we are entangled in, twisting and writhing without a care or a cause. This world is big and we are swimming in it, weightless and full of hope higher than the steep craggy mountain of struggle that lies before us. We wait and wonder, we grow taller, our eyes grew wider, our hands reached for the grass beneath us. We taste the soil and scrape our palms on tree trunks. We crow and croon and shout and stomp. We are born from the bark, we are the children of the forest.
While the light trips fantastic over the Thames, the Southbank simmers. New architecture faces old as two worlds rest beside the placid tide. There are bookshops under bridges, carousels and mimes, the ebb and flow and the low rumble of trains; here is a world of this and that. London’s cacophony of sound and sense winds down for just a moment, and awaits the bustle of night.
Behind these shy yet blazing eyes, there lurks a mind as sharp as ice. I am a veiled creature, a quiet force which creeps below the stars in the clear winter sky. I do not raise my noble chin to chant my sorrows to the moon. She does not hear my hushed ache, for she is burdened by those who lustily howl and wail skyward. She hangs above the broken lives below, and like the crystal rivers, bathes their wounds in soft streams of light. I do not yearn for her brief remedy, for though the glow is bewitching and tender, in these lands there lives a greater spirit.
I, the solitary beast, am the most tenacious of them all. But if my ancient scars could sing they would whisper into my ear the lullabies of tribe and truth that I yearn to hear, and my soul would blossom like the patient trees of spring. Through knotted woodland passages do I wander, straying, and yet never led astray. The wild and dangerous lurking in the shadows conceal themselves, wanting to enshroud onlookers in fear, but they hide, cowards behind a curtain of nightfall, who are feared more than they are fearsome.
I do not hide, I do not hunt, I am the wolf that walks alone.
Amongst the hushed echos of the Christmas fair, in the crisp cool of winter, the sweet bells of an ancient carousel breathed quiet joy into the souls of all who chose to listen.