Writing 101: Death To Adverbs

Another day another challenge, The title of today’s challenge should be self explanatory. I’m required to write today’s piece without the use of adverbs. So ill be taking to describing a setting of my choice, bringing it to life and into your minds without the use of adverbs. Sounds interesting enough, hope you enjoy it.


I manage to find myself in the same place every Friday. I walk along the same roads, cutting through the same lanes, to occupy the same seat at the bar. One innocent visit germinated into a habit, a habit now calcified at the tail end of my week as perennial punctuation. The sun dives into a slumber, the orange sky congeals to a black and I rise up into the night.

Peeling open the doors of the watering hall, I saunter in. I salute the friendly faces behind the bar and flash them the  sparkling residues of my wallet, inviting my libations from their safety. “A pint of Thatchers please!” Parting with a few pound coins and the odd penny, I arm myself with a golden potion for the evening.

Cutting across the crowded room, I elbow my way past the same old men. The same old men who commune at the foot of the evening with fist fulls of youth by the chalice and pint glass. They commune in ecstasy, lost in the depth of jubilation. I see them there, rocking atop there experienced feet, from heal to toe, swaying as the hops and fermented barley snake their way into there belly’s, they revel in merriment. “Bring em in Dave!” I hear them say, the call for more ales and brews cannons, adding more fuel to their onslaught of just tonality. The moment resonates in infamy, how can I forget those atonal drones, as the speakers dotted across the room lead the slurring sundry through another man handling of a classic ballad. “Signed sealed delivered, I’m yours!” the boisterous baritones burst into chorus, a truth Stevie Wonder must never learn.

Another plunge into my golden companion and the idle chatter around me is chiselled into a flurry of static, the vacant voices decend to simply another noise drifting into the walls. As I steal another embrace of my dwindling golden trough, the thick smog of sobriety lifts, unveiling the obscurity intoxication arouses. Layers of joyful ambience drape themselves over each other, layer after layer, as each moment inches into the next.

My tongue, serenaded by a mischievous sweetness, teases me into the world of slippery syllables. The mosaic in front of me flowers and feeds my eyes, the canvas of bar stools and tables patches itself into a master piece of merriment.

The night fills the empty spaces around me with familiar faces. I find peace in knowing that I’m never alone in this weekly pilgrimage. The evening, at its apex, draws in such crowds. Waves of wondering souls waltz into the thick of things and paint there stroke against the hungry canvas.

 Merriment has a contagious gait. Together we drink. In unified fashion strangers and kin folk alike surrender to the evenings libation, infecting the willing patrons with this swing of Bon Vivre. This bout of merriment is a peculiar breed, a gloriously, potent tonic that takes to running into the depth of our belly’s, overpowering our minds and our sensibility. Sometimes the flowering fun wilts. It happens and I witness it from time to time, the bubbly motif of the evenings glee strikes a dead note. The merriment grows stale as the labours of libation adopts a bitter taste. The meandering  culprits, with their crooked steps and belly’s swirling with more than there fair share, fracture the fugal fanfare. Before there rebellion infects any one else, they are pealed from the palette, and cast into the night. When the smell of anger betrays the sweet smiles, and inhibition forsaken there tethers, the masterpiece is surrendered to the hands of a cubist, and the mural contorts. 

I perch myself on the easel until my time is spent. After the smiles wane, and the fatigue filters in, I reacquaint my feet with the cold night and retreat to my sanctum of solace. Home calls, through the permeable cloak of assisted merriment, it rings. Until the week has weakened its grips once more, I rediscover equilibrium, I gather my senses and bid auf wiedersehen to my portrait of pleasure.











Writing 101: Give and Take


Hello one and all, I’d like to re-emerge from my hiatus with a long overdue apology.

I am sorry.

 I’ve been neglectful of my blogging habits. This has been due to a powerful combination of work, life and procrastination. I’m easing my way back into your homes and hearts by continuing with the blogging U I was doing before my mysterious disappearance, “Writing 101”.

The challenge I tackled for this post is a challenge in contrast. I have to present 2 conflicting, or opposing ideas or elements through the piece. The challenge however has a twist, and the twist is that, for this challenge, I have to present this idea in the form of a dialogue. There is no better way to get to grips with something new than to get your hands dirty. So here it is, my attempt at weave together a dialogue.



“Every time!” He said. “Every time were in need of swift action, you waylay our efforts with this, your obsolete moral babble!” Brendan’s bark was a bitter one, abrupt and cloaked in malice. It often was this way, he was a passionate boy, quick to anger, quick to love. He paced around the room intoxicated with agitation. The old floor boards creaked in protest of his frenzy. Each step of his, agitated and brisk, punished the worn fibres of the old carpet.

“You need to calm down Brendan” Said Frederick. “Your pacing is sure to give me a head ache. Quieten your legs and use whatever is left in that little head of yours” His disposition maintained its usual calm and controlled air. His sombre eyes searched the corners of the room. There was a solution hidden in the thick of the confusion, his patience hadn’t failed his pursuit for resolve before, he trusted his temperament.

“How could you possibly consider calm at a time like this?” Brendan said, “If the tables were turned , I would really hope that you’d be out there,” He gestured to the window “Out there doing what needs to be done!” he struggled to ease himself and paced some more.

All the while there was a third body in the room, a body that sat quietly, under the roaring tides of a sibling dispute. Fading under the waves of dissonance.

As the young men vied for justice and resolve, the small room grew smaller by the minute. Fire and Ice, spiralling in abrupt bouts of diction, passion and sensibility caught in mortal conflict. Brendan’s fires, though periodically subdued by Fredrick winds of reason, offered a glimpse of the infernal the young man harboured. Fredrick was determined to douse and simmer  the crescendo of Brendan’s passions, as he had always done.

“This isn’t wisdom Freddie. There is nothing wise about your flap-able courage.” Brendan spat out his words, attacking the empty spaces in the room, “I just want to get my hands on the …”  he stifled his words as the seething ambers of revenge coursed through him. His steps boiled into a heavy march that rattled the delicate little house. He drew himself close to, and turned towards the seated boy with some semblance of calm. “I’ll find whoever did this, and I will make them truly pay!”

The little home their mother kept in tact till the time of her passing was rattling at the hinges. Shaky floor boards, faded walls and wavering spirits.

“He is as much my brother as he is yours, maybe the hatred and fury of your little black heart blinds you!” Fredrick said, now projecting with some power, through his wavering calm “Can’t you see this cuts me just as deep as it does you!” a surprising flicker of passion flashed through his air of  tranquillity. “Your senseless taste for blood will only stir the violence” once again he restored his timbre, that rhythm of reason that kept the peace. “There will be no such foolishness.”

Malachi, the third body in that room, the youngest of the three siblings, remained glued to the seat of his trousers. A normally jovial young man, now wore his severed stare and wounded pride with emptiness. His gaze, a cold and empty gaze, was lost in everything. He stared into and through through the faded walls, his face dotted with bruises, the dark foot prints of a fray tracing his body and face. Every bruise that kissed his skin was a twisted dagger in each brothers flank. As plain as it was to see that the two brothers were nurtured by completely opposite impulses,  there love for there brother was a deep and mutual one. It showed oh so clearly, as is only expected, t2hey only had each other.

Agnes, there mother, was a gentle lady, a sweet, loving mother. A hard working woman, who raised  3 boys and supported them through tireless endeavours.Times had gotten much harder since the love she grew to know betrayed her. Her husband had left her, The father to her sons had vanished without notice. Fredrick and Brendan old enough to remember that moment, had taken with them separate pieces of that broken picture. Brendan, with all his fire, remembered the tears and pain. His mothers wails of pain nourished a seed of passion and fire that grew to serve as his compass. Fredrick, on the other hand, remembered the long hours his mother worked, he remembered her exhaustion and sleepless nights. He wished to put an end to that and relieve her of that burden. After her passing it was Fredrick who kept the peace and sustained what left of there little family.

“All you do is watch things happen, you never take action,” Brendan said, “are these the impotent habits of a learned, educated , man?”, Brendan was working him self up, eagerly teasing another bout of passion from his older.

“There is nothing wise about all three of us rushing at the lions mouth” Fredrick  said “It doesn’t make you a man, to surrender to that thirst of yours,” he added ” That thirst for blood and chaos is a fools lust. You’re only proving to me that you are truly still just a little boy!”

“You really have become him, haven’t you?” Brendan said, drawing a confused glance from his older brother, “Unbelievable! You’re talking just like him. Running away from your responsibilities, just like him. You even look like that dog, smell like that dog. You are barking just like him.” His voice and edge into a menacing growl “You are just like dad Fredrick!” Brendan’s rage was consuming him.

“That’s enough!” Said Fredrick. pressing his lightening white knuckles to the seems of his trousers, flashing a glorious crimson.”I’ll never be that, swine.!” He said, “Who helped keep us all fed, dry and warm after Ma passed? That selfish pig wouldn’t do so much as spit in a trough to quench our thirst”

“That’s it, let it all out.” Brendan said. A sinister air cascaded through his rage, his faint smile found pleasure in breaking his brothers patience.

All the while Malachi, with his melancholy demeanour further drowned him into obscurity, the soul cause of the commotion was speechless and filled with an unknown war.

“Ask the boy!” Fredrick said “Ask the boy what actually happened before you’re madness lands us all in it”

Malachi’s eyes finally wondered out of the depths of bewilderment and back into the room.

“He’s gone!” Malachi finally spoke. “That bastard is gone, finally gone”

His words crashed the tension, his unexpected utterance shattered the bubbling confrontation into shards of curiosity. His older brothers, dazed and confused, searched to piece this new strand of misery into the frame.

“He was there! His face was right there in front of me, repulsive, arrogant and black all the way through” Malachi continued, his brothers were prisoners to the mystery he teased into the coarse air “He mentioned Mum!” He said, Why did he have to mention her?” Malachi was shaking and growing alarmingly agitated  “He had it coming!”

Fredrick finally found his words. His worry and curiosity had set it in thickly “What did you do lad?”

Malachi’s once innocent eyes had finally been sullied, they spoke of malice and grief. His face, war torn and bruised, his garments tattered from unknown fray, spattered in frightening auburn patched. The very disposition that ignited a deep concern had now thrust them into a worry of the darkest sort.

Even Brendan’s lust for commotion was stifled. “You fool!” he said “What have you done?”

“It was that rotten mutt Richard” said  Malachi , through gritted teeth, clenched knuckles and a bubbling soul.  “It was dad!”

The words stripped Fredrick of his balance, he collapsed into the nearest seat, his head fell into his palms, his chest emptied in whimpers of a delicate pain. Brendan’s simply froze, the disbelief had simmered his energies.

Fredrick pleaded with the heavens.”Lord, what has he done!”

The three brothers, stunned by it all sat in silence. Taken aback by the unforeseeable events, sat there, simply sat there.

Unannounced, an urgent knock boomed and echoed through the room. The three faces turned in puzzlement.

Writing 101 – Day 6: Music & Lyrics

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Her fingers were tipped with magic, they teased at the strings of her guitar, sweetening the air around and stealing me away from my own thoughts. The sun danced to her medleys, her lips, full with passion and grace traced out words to new worlds that lived in song. Her whole body was immersed in music, the passion filled her cheeks with life, they dawned a scarlet warmth that radiated from the brightest smile, with a single shallow dimple poked into her left cheek. Her nose did a little dance as she sang, she’d sway to the music and disappear behind her thick lashes.

At first, I only heard the music. It was enriching the painting of the summers day unfolded in front of me. I was sat beneath the giant Elm tree, scribbling away at my notepad and working my way through a book. Between watching the park fill with a mosaic of faces, coaxed into frenzy by the summers brilliance, I’d peck away at chapters of my book and scatter words onto the blank pages of my note book. It was out of curiosity that I turned her way, the sound of that guitar pried me out of my world of words and ushered me into the pulsating current of polyphonic brilliance. I adjusted to face the music, and there she was, enjoying her picnic for one. Enjoying herself, making merry in accordance with the radiant delight of summer.

She had won my audience, I listened in appreciation. The music had perforated the last barrier that would have deemed us strangers. We became two residents of the same home, inhabitants of the same present, woven together by music. The notes she played nurtured our smiles into nods, which opened the door through which the two worlds bled through.

The prelude our initial interaction had glossed my impression of her richly, we had no problem diving into engaging conversation, Pealing away the layers in a jovial joust, fighting away the thin veneer of  the unknown that lingered. I spoke of words, she spoke of music. Music meant so much to her, she adopted a certain vulnerability when she talked about her music. She spoke sweetly and full of certainty,  she spoke as she sang, with captivating grace, hooking me with every sentence she uttered. She had these eyes, these shy eyes. Like a sobered tempest, still, blue, teasing up a storm in every glance, they traced my features and welcomed my gaze, filling me with warmth. She had a character of intriguing allure. She wore her hair boldly, a rebellious blonde that swept one way, just reaching low enough to hide her ear lobs, and gently framed her radiant face, it complemented her boisterous nature perfectly.

The hours were dwarfed into endless strands of a mutual fascination. Fleeting minutes, falling over to the next in haste, time was passing us. I unwrapped every chapter of her mind with zeal and wonder, she wandered into my labyrinth of nuances and quirks, with surprising delight. The conversation caught fire and consumed the day light. The cold air that rushed along her soft skin was  a sure sign it was time to go home. We parted ways with a promise. We promised to hunt down any open mics and poetry slams. We spoke everyday and fantasized about chasing storms. Vibrant storms, where music and words can catch fire once more.

Writing 101 – Day Five: Loose leaf of a Lament


A letter!
But here?!

“…From the Depth of my heart.

With Loves Fieriest Passion


Moving sentiments from the strangest face. Pompous paper, with seductive mysteries had broken my stride, penetrated my world on a canvas of concrete, pebbles and dashings of earth. Curiosity won in straight sets. My hast for the convenience stores concessionary corner was calmed, but life gifted justly, after all, “Life is like a box of chocolate you never know what you’re gonna…”

“Get it through you’re head, Its you, only you, its always been you! This is hard and …”

Painful, the curiosity grips intensely. Oh mystery, you burn me. The letters were loud, Jittery loops of fire, quivering curves of angst, ink drenched regret on the paper that caught fire when a broken heart burst.

Operation skittles and M&M’s, was belittled by them and them. The hearts and minds of him and her. There was her, there was him. There was Karis, there was Dave. But Karis and her fire ignited this parchment with this ember that rattled incessantly in ink, and in turn, my mind.

The cold concrete and morning dew had stolen these words and suffocated there messenger. Only the faintest breathe of an address, the residues of a final hope, lingered on the tattered sleeve of Manila.

“Seymour Road”

I was thrust in a storm of hearts, this slither of lightning teased me with a flash, a glimpse of passion ,lust and maybe distrust.

Seymour road is 5 Minutes away. Seymour road is 10 minutes and 20 houses long.

For Love, for the Lust for Mystery. I marched on destiny’s unpredictable tempest.

Writing 101 – Day Four: Serially Lost



We had to go. I had to bring my farewells to an end, my time was up. In less that 72 hours I would be thousands of miles away, we’d be thousand miles apart. This farewell was final, we wont be seeing each other for a very, very long time. On second thoughts, I wouldn’t see a lot  things for a very long time.  My house, my school mates, the friendly faces that lived on the other-side of our fences, all of it would take a step back from the next few chapters of my life.

My father spoke of this move before, apart from the hypothetical reality that lived in the conversation between me and my three brothers, it was only an idea. This idea had finally become a reality, my family was moving over to the United Kingdom, to the fruitful planes of sunny England. It was all exciting for us, of course it was. We would be stepping into a glorious new world.  Our spirits had acquired some vigour in the days leading up to the move. Each one of us, excited, fidgety, running away with this sweeping anticipation. We’d play as we normally did, running around the large yard, exercising our active imaginations. There was tree climbing, play fighting and the mandatory wrestle with our family pet to entertain us. A boisterous bundle of loyalty that dog was, dancing amongst our excitement. He had a knack for seizing any chance to partake in our merriment. “Jungle will love it there!” I thought to myself one day. I froze and examined the thought, letting reality wash over the statement “Jungle .. love it … there?”. Never has a more solemn realization hurtled down onto my joy, it shattered my ecstasy. I knew Jungle wouldn’t love it there, because jungle wasn’t going there.

At the age of six my family relocated. We moved from Zambians capital, Lusaka, to a town called Kitwe. We moved into a spacious house, with a very roomy yard, plenty of lawn space and a variety of trees accenting it, mango, guava, avocado, oranges, lemon … heaven. Its hard to forget the backdrop to so many of my childhood memories.

This is where we were introduced, Me and Jungle met for the very first time at that house. Jungle, a peculiar name I know, named as a pup before we met him, we embraced it. The charismatic canine won us over with his vivacious thirst for adventure, the glare of optimism in his eyes and the bounce in his step. As soon as he touched down he was off, wasting no time in exploring. He scurried around the yard, marking  his territory, fighting against the fencing’s edges, hoping to manufacture a new exit, generally growing intimate with his new digs.

I was a boy, he was a pup. He was filled with affection and excitement, the contagious cheer was instinctively reciprocated. In Zambia, our dogs slept outside. This made every morning a heartfelt reunion. Waking up to this excited beast, starry eyed with his tail high, wagging wildly. The weekends were the best, we welcomed his hugs of excitement, even encouraged the Ecstasy. School days were a formal affair, we had to pacify these morning greetings, exercising caution and reining in the thoughts of play. his excitement had a way of ruining our school uniforms, stray fur and paw prints were a sure way to guarantee a scolding.

Every moment spent apart was brought to an end with a heart melting reception. I still feel his wet nose dotting my hands, his wagging tail beating against my legs as he circled me in a frenzy. The 10 second walk to the door was  extended by jovial ceremony. I welcomed the paw prints and those mischievous stray strands of fur that lingered long after each embrace has ended. He had his own way of looking, with his eyes, he would trace me up and down almost to say “long time no see, look how much you’ve grown”, a reception akin to family you haven’t seen in years. Regardless of how the day went, good or bad, I was always guaranteed one thing, one thing to augment merriment or sweep any sadness from the frame. Whether it be running under the beating afternoon suns gaze or simply sat on the veranda, evading the rains stampede, he filled each moment with loyalty, comfort and companionship.

Since meeting him, I cannot remember a milestone in my life in which he was truant. The passing of my grandfather was a particularly emotional event for me, even then, I remember the role he played in piecing me back together. He was my best friend, we grew up together. I saw him mature from a pup to the dog I last remember, and he saw me grow too, from losing my baby teeth to learning to read.

Now imagine the scene of our final farewell, imagine looking your best friend in the eye, knowing you will never see him again, knowing he has no idea that, this is it. Imagine knowing that those goodbyes that appeased even the blues days were resigned to living solely as memories. As that kennel door shut close a chapter of my life, those dark eyes of his peered at me protest. His solemn whimpers, and the chatter of his paws as he paced frantically cannot, will not, be forgotten.

His memory will never fade. I know I will never call his name and see that stampede of love rushing at me again, I know I will never feel the warmth of him, when the air is cold, or when the smile on my face has frosted and tapered down. The whimpers and paws scratching at the door, calling me out, to teach me how to appreciate another day will now only reverberate in memory. He taught selfless love, loyalty and seizing happiness in everyday.

I lost Jungle in the Summer of 2003. I refuse to ask where he is now. That, my heart cannot bare, I will revel in blissful ignorance. My best friend is alive in my memories. It would take a thousand lifetimes to stifle that light. I’m in England now, Jungle loves it.

Writing 101 – Day Three: Top 3 Selected


Music  is a crucial component in the life of me. I love it, I need it, I want it. The beautiful thing about music ,like with a lot of things, is that it comes in a vast array of forms, styles and intensities. Regardless of your mood or where you are within yourself, you will be able to find the perfect, aurally compatible companion. When I read the days mission statement for the Writing 101, I was greeted by an alien cocktail of emotions. You would think I would have been filled with excitement, receiving that green light to talk about something that moves me deeply. The emotions weren’t so clean cut. I was engrossed with panic, and the tiniest flicker of sadness. These emotions where sparked by such a minute component to the days brief, the number, “Three”. I was required to do the seemingly impossible. To reduce an endless assortment of important songs, down to only three that meant a lot to me. Hours of head scratching later, I ruthlessly cut the roster of  ‘important songs’ down, and I believe I have managed to pick out the three songs that have a significance importance to me.

Here goes!

claude debussy

First on the list, is a gift from the French, with one of Claude Debussy. He was a french romantic composers preludes, one of which was “le fille aux cheveux de lin”. What a seductive title, The girl with flaxen hair. This was a brilliant piece that entered my life in the final years of studying A level music. For a portion of my final grade, I was required to play a hand full of solo pieces. Having played piano early in my life, and fallen in love with the swinging jazz melodies, classical pieces were truant in my list of favourite pieces to play. This piece defied precedence and won me over instantly. The notes held character, a smooth tonal topography of … bliss. I had to acquaint myself with  ‘ the girl with flaxen hair’ . The journey to a mutual understanding, between her and I, was long and  fraught with many trying at times. However, every time I battled against the sporadic dissonance or frustration and emerged victorious , I would melt inside the notes. Fingers dancing to the choreography of Claude Debussy, I would run away with my Flaxen Haired maiden till the last note rang out and I was forced to re-enter reality. Heartbreaking.


Now I bring us all forward in time. We have reveled in the beauty of the work of a  19th century, romantic french composer, Monsiuer Debussy, now we must press on. Here we enter a time more akin to this day and age, 1992 to be more specific. This was the year that Eric Clapton first performed his song “Tears in Heaven”. This solemnly strummed song was inspired my an emotionally devastating event in his life. Eric Clapton had lost his son the year before, and this song  was written as a touching ode to his seed. Whenever I get a chance to step closer into the music, it deeply enriches my experience of it, this was the case with this song. This was one of the first songs I learned to play on the guitar, and it remains one of 3 songs that I can partially, pluck, strum or fumble my way along the fret board to – doing it no justice to any chance listeners. This delicate melody and heart felt verse helps to encapsulate what makes music such a potent form spiritual libation. The music and lyrics are vivid with this message, “Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?” He yearns for his lost child, and his mind toils with a reunion in the afterlife. The melancholy chord on beautifully played acoustic guitar massage you into his hearts view of thing, “I must stay strong, and carry on, because I know, they’ll be no more, tears in heaven” . How could his sons memory ever fade, even to stranger such as me. The music is so genuinely filled with emotion, sentiment and rich sounds.

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So we reach the final leg of my race to share my three songs. This tour in time and in my tastes leads us even closer to the now. Here it is, from Compton California, we have, Kendrick Lamar. He had an album titled “Good Kid Maad city” which featured a track titled “sing about me”. Not only is this track a redemption of the lyrical capabilities of modern hip hop, but it incorporates what i under stand to be important in music and in RAP, Rhythm and Poetry. “Sing about me” takes you through 3 verses from different perspectives based on real events. It travels along the concept of retaining a legacy, a story, with different reactions to being immortalized in discourse. “When the lights shine off, and its my turn to settle down, my main concern is promise that you will sing about me … promise that you will sing about me” The first verse is spoken in the voice of a hard nosed young man, victim to the violent cultures of his surroundings, aware of his premature exit to life and hopes that he is remembered. The second verse is a touching conversation with a young promiscuous woman  who resents the speaker for speaking of her sisters habits, without an understanding of the way she sees things, “… And if you have an album date, just make sure I’m not in the song, cause I don’t need the attention, bring enough of that on my own…”. As a writer and a musician myself, I hold individuals who can communicate with skill, in an entertaining fashion, in high regard. Kendrick Lamar was feeding perspective, Kendrick Lamar was telling a story, Kendrick Lamar continues to imprison my attention with “Sing About Me”.

Music will always have a special place in my life. This was a fraction of keyhole glance into what music touches me. I picked these 3 songs because they represent different corners of my broad taste, each song played a part in fanning my passion for music and its power communication. The clarinets words aren’t learned by all, in those room we filled into when the school day began, however we know when its stories are sad or cheerful. That the beauty of music. A universal Language.

Writing 101 – Day Two: A View of the Park


After summer had abandoned its lethargic rousing, it graced us with its sprightly sun and and warming embrace. It may have been a late arrival, but its fashionably late burst into fruition negated the dreary days of pitter-pattering minions of darkened nimbus. When these days came around I had my Eden to turn to, my sanctum of solace, the loom that wove all that I loved about summer into one tapestry of beauty, who could ask for more. I would head there with a book for the day,  go along with some friends, and other times I’d simply walk my thoughts through the park.

It was a good twenty minute walk to the park from where I stayed. A pretty straight forward route, dotted with a convenience stores. These  shops were perfectly situated to cater to my hunger for all manner of treats. When the heat was boastful and right, the obvious choice was a nice cold treat, the type that was affordable, sweet, cold and coloured my tongue a vast array of vivid reds, greens, blues and purples, the ever reliable ice lolly. A quick stop for supplies and off for the park, armed with a bag full of treats, my excitement would bubble in a crescendo of excitement as I grew closer and closer. A further two minutes from the shops, turn right, and there it was.

Even before I set foot into the park I could see the expanse of green grass, with accents of gold around the football goals, where excited feet rushed around as its gracious host fed there jovial canter, On the nearest edge of the grass was a small playground, the unmistakable creak of the swing set piercing through the children’s laughter. On days like these there was always children’s laughter filling the air, parents sat outside the enclosure as the children played, the stray parent or two joining the merriment. The joy was almost palpable, coursing through the place.

I always kicked my shoes off my feet when I got there. I wanted to feel the soft green right underneath me, warm and welcoming, I wanted every sense to dine on the feast of my Eden. As I walked past the tall row of trees that filed along the left hand side of the grass i could feel the crunch of leaves under the soles of my bare feet, I walk on as they whisper stories, stories of a lifetime in the canopy of their guardians. These trees stood along the edge like family, they all looked similar in one way or another, each with a uniqueness of character to them, the same resemblance that siblings bare. Under there outstretched leafy arms you could hide from the heat of the sun, if its kiss proved too passionate. The wind the rustled the leaves and tickled the skin was a temperamental one, sometimes it blew with a heated passion, other times it would tease the suns power off the skin,  cooled the beads of sweat from the brow and steadied the heat.

The shade of the trees made a perfect location for sitting down and enjoying a read or a nibble. It was always cool and  shaded, the sun would wink through the canopy every now and then , but the trees would keep me sheltered, unmoved as I reclined on its trunk, towering behind and over me, as though reading over my shoulder. The feather bodies that scurried through the leaves would accompany the summer in there joyful riffs. The scurrying squirals would dance along the branches, but they were all welcome company.

Further into the park,only a short daydreaming wonder from there green, was a large pond, alive with life. A span of tranquil libation for the travelling birds. From my observation, this pond was home to two gracious swans that nested on the nearest bank of this wavy watery mirror. A whole host of feathered folk danced in the pond, mallards and a complimentary cast of water fowl waded to and fro, bobbing there beaks into the water, occasionally a crafty bird or two would full submerge itself in the pond to emerge a few seconds later. A circus of motion on so many planes.

I would spend the best part of an afternoon there in that park. Reveling in the broad pallet of colours and sounds. The green and gold of the grass, the blue hue of the watery parquet, the pearly white feathers of the gracious swans with  those orange beaks, the colourful coats of the ducks and there entourage, the blue sky with wondering whites that sweep through it, that golden sun, that crackling brown skin of the trees and there bronzing leaves, the rusting aging goal post that persists to stay and make merry with the visitors. And the symphony, oh what a symphony that would play there.

Take me back to my Eden. I hope my sanctum will remember me and once again we can embrace one another. Maybe again I can let those blades of grass embrace my stride and share with me the excitements I’ve missed in our time apart. Let the leaves hug there branches, but please let a stray leaf or two, one of  those, eager to meet me leaves, come back down and lay with me again. Send me there so I can wave to the swans, ask them about there pond and those rowdy fowls, those acrobatic ducks in there wading and head bobbing.

That place will always live on in my memories, whenever my eyelashes cage close a blink I know i will see it again, my Eden.