There used to be flowers here

When I was small there was a field by the small river where I would happily run and play. In the Northern most corner of that field, next to the footbridge, a few trees stood tall and beneath them wild flowers grew. I remember the trees seemed as silver in winter and emerald with an orange glow in summer. It was the colors that I remember most about that top corner. Thinking back to those happy times, the memory of such pure innocent laughter echoing amongst those trees can bring me a smile today.
The flowers and trees no longer grow there.
The fence came first to keep all of the small saddened eyes out and then the construction company came and the fence was replaced by boards and we could no longer see what was happening inside or the fate of our beloved play area.
When finally after endless months the boards did come down we saw the building stand proud and smelling of cement occupy our play area and miserably it seemed that another slice of childhood had been removed and consumed by the city's growth.

Here in today's world I am there again in the exact same spot where all my pretty flowers used to grow but I am now at the height of the tops of the trees that surrounded them. I am now inside that building waiting for another indeterminate future to unfold. I doubt anyone here knew of the time when this area was just a field and because they they never knew of it, they cannot feel its loss like I do.

The view from the bridge is only half of what I recall but the path leading to it remains the same even if it lies in the shadow of half forgotten childhood dreams.

I was going to say something quite different here in this blog and perhaps brake another chain from the beast but somehow the fruit of the idea that I had seemed to sour by the time I sat here. Perhaps like my little river there is a view of what lies beneath in between the ripples from the falling rain.

It can't rain all the time.

There are times when things happen that can't be said or perhaps should not be said. Not for fear of ridicule because you all know I say what ever is in my heart and mind and often I say it with feeling if not always straight to the point. I infer things and point to things with references opaque and sometimes quite transparent but not now. The world has lost a dimension and become a little more flat from my unique perspective

Some things carry their own pain and some things, purely decided upon by the authors, are deemed not for public consumption.

Some have looked here and have seen a great strength and some have remarked upon a noticing a little more than that but I have not seen those things for several days. I have found that sometimes our greatest enemy can be closer than any of us ever imagined.

Some symphonies remain unfinished. Borodin and Elgar and Stenhammer and even a Tchaikovsky piano concerto all had the number three unfinished. Three was never a good number and as a testament to them this blog will remain...