And slowly, slowly as the seasons changed, the days grew shorter and the flowers died... The songbirds came, a million tightrope-walkers, waiting on the wires to fly. Southwards then in close formation - she watched them go, without emotion. As every hour grew more unreal - just like a film played in slow-motion. As naked trees reflected in a river, despite the cold wind barely moving, she stood before a dark and broken mirror, stripped of all the joys of loving. Winter's icy hand took pity, touched her heart for her protection, stunned her senses, numbed her pain, helped her face her own reflection... And for a while her life was easy - if Life it be where song has died. Where laughter is a hollow ringing and in the eyes there is no sign of pride. She built a wall that neither foe, friend nor stranger should intrude and, like the Prisoner of Chillon, learned to love her solitude. And in that peace she found some truth at last, although she'd lost the means to tell. She'd grown apart - now in her loneliness, the tears of all the changing seasons fell. For with the answers to the questions came the nameless, silent fears - feeling it must be too late to right the errors of those years... So when, within that hour, he called her name - she didn't stop to ask the reason why... but turned her eyes towards the sun and sang and sang until the stars were high... Introduction     Back     Continue......