Sleet spitting against his casement did nothing to improve his sour mood. He’d been dreaming of fresh leek soup, but the bitter weather delayed the “arse test” and thus any thoughts of planting.
He knew locating so near the moor was folly; but at the time, he craved isolation and morning sea tang. “I had a leak of brain fluid,” he muttered as another gust of wind sent more icy precipitation skittering across the panes.
He sparked another taper against the pressing gloom. In truth, he dreamed of more than a bowl of steamy leek soup. He thought of her. But then he always did. From the first moment he spied her sad-eyed face peeking from between a hooded cloak. She oft said he thought too much of other things. But no other woman would occupy his thoughts, his arms, his bed. No one but her.
He was again in the wildflower meadow next to the ancient oak. She sat upon the field-wall separating tame from free. She scooped up the sun-dappled light, illuminating her face. A rare smile warmed her lips; “Is paradise,” she murmured, softly. Breezes sent the flower tops in motion; she slipped off the wall, and joined the dancing. She twirled upon herself, arms out, skirts flying. And, with a laugh, tumbled. It was then he, emboldened by the lightness of her mood, pulled her to her feet.
She yielded to his kiss; he let the memory warm him. No other day was every such perfection. All he ever wanted was to make her thus: laughing, light, sun-spun and happy. That he now sat, cold and alone was a testament to the folly of such notions. For love, he thought, was as ephemeral as the flower fluff that rose above them, pirouetted and was gone.
He stroked his grizzled beard, “Here I sit, mind drifting, thoughts leak one upon the next. Imagine. From leeks to luxuria. What more madness awaits upon the moor.”