Windflower

Hothouse Flowers 2002 - Artist Ellen Bell

They said that he always called her Windflower. An excellent pianist. He wrote his symphonies for her. They weren’t lovers but he was always thinking of her. Their intimacy was complete.

I love to see the fishing boats leaving the harbour. The other day in the still dark, I watched as it tumbled over the waves. Its lights so bright, so comforting. What a way to make a living. The peril of it. I remember the hymns – those in peril on the sea. In peril. Perilous. God speed. Keep them safe, I whisper.

What do we do with such knowledge? Such knowing of such atrocities. Let them stop. Let it stop. What can we do to protect each other from brutality. In the name of God. No, it cannot be. Children, teachers murdered. I hear the screaming, the terror. Please, let it stop. Let us stop. Rest in peace, my loves. We are part of the same heart, beating, bleeding with the pain. What can I do? Tell me. What can I do?