Buttered Fields

Buttered Fields It was early when she was tickled awake as light eased under the eaves to trickle through a sigh of curtains, to whisper across the bedroom floor, to nudgingly nestle beside her…..and beam! Outside the sun had buttered the fields, mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew. The girl awoke wearing playful eyes and a zestful imagination wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks but the morning was in the process of writing its own story. Capital letters of trees stood tight and tall beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery, sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes. Yes, her day was already penned and punctuated. Soon, she was washed, dressed and toothpasted And, with a hip and a hop, she sprung outside her house. All around the morning sang, “All things bright and beautiful!” while Mother Nature had her skipping rope out and was creating mischievous merrymaking. The wind began huffing and puffing all before it and after juggling a few dustbins it decided to show off, performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition. The girl now watched, waited and wondered what was what? So with trees staggering and the wind waggling the morning now danced merrily in front of her, and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind, she curtsied, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment. Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting, flared through the clouds looking for something lost, while the road’s yellow lines appeared to hold hands as they strolled side by side into the distance; the girl followed, excitement shivering her sleeve. Ian Souter 9/2024