IgnoredOne
Well-known member
Haru
Wind, light and carefree, wound its way up a mountain, shaking the pink and white blossoms from the trees. It danced amongst fallen leaves, stirring tired creatures from their sleep, bringing them blinking into the morning light. It skipped along a gently flowing river, creating ripples so slight that only the water boatmen noticed, as they glided lazily downstream. It span over stone and grass, giggling, content in its mischief.
A poet sat cross legged beneath an ancient Sakura tree, breathing softly. In the glade all was peaceful. A lake bubbled softly behind the tree, warmed by the heat of the sleeping mountain, secreted under his stones. Blossoms fell lightly upon its surface, covering the water in a blanket of pale colour.
The wind saw the poet sitting calmly in the glade, his back to the ancient tree, and giggled a high, childish giggle. Sweeping, it breezed down from the sky, and ran its fingers through his raven hair. It disturbed the brush that lay by his side, its single white feather pushed across the golden sand. It pulled away, smiling, and chased a butterfly up into the canopy, high and secluded.
A single pink blossom fell upon the poet’s shoulder.
Among the trees lurked a wolf, as young and white as powdered snow. It watched the poet intently, wondering why he was here, alone in the forest, as unprotected as an injured fawn. It sniffed the air, sweet and free of sweat. An absence of fear. It blinked its bright, crimson eyes and emerged from the undergrowth, its curiosity outweighing its trepidation.
Across the sand, it moved silently, wraithlike, till it could almost caress the poet’s ear.
‘Tell me,’ it whispered, its voice deep and alluring, ‘why do you sit alone in the sand?’
A statue of tranquillity, the poet stayed silent.
‘Spring is in the air. Can you not feel it? Rustling in the branches and rolling amid the grass? Does it not call to you, my dark haired friend? Does it not sing in your ears and your veins, whispering promises of love and happiness?’
Where a wolf once stood, there was now a silken haired woman, lily white in her nudity. Long, fluttering lashes framed eyes that sparkled with the promise of desires fulfilled, glittering like the surface of a lake. She stroked the poets cheek softly; a flame haired lover, and smiled.
‘I can give you all you desire,’ she whispered, lustily, her pale lips brushing against his ear, lingering in a kiss of warm breath, ‘give yourself to me.’
The poet, legs still crossed, reached down and picked up his brush. The feather wavered softly. In quick, sharp strokes, words began to form from the split sand;
Born from bursting seed
Desire grows, blossoms, and falls,
Flitting on warm wind
Desire grows, blossoms, and falls,
Flitting on warm wind
The poet placed his brush, carefully, back on the sand, and closed his eyes.
A wolf, once a woman, stared at the slashes in the sand. It growled, low and defeated, and slinked away into the trees, white tail low, brushing against the grass.
#
Natsu
Mosquitoes buzzed across the lake’s surface, darting through the wavering air, upsetting the tranquillity of the grove. Red tailed and nervous, a squirrel leapt from the Sakura’s branches, seeking better shade beneath the green, waxen leaves. It landed, heavily, yet elegantly, beside the poet, and looked up at his calm, stoic expression. Wind brushed them both. Finding nothing, the squirrel bounded into shade.
Muscles rippling under wet fur, the wolf emerged dripping from the lake. Water droplets turned to steam in the hot, humid air, climbing to heaven like liberated souls.
It stopped a distance from the poet, and shook the water violently from its coat.
‘Tell me,’ it growled, deep and powerful, ‘why do you not sit in the glow of the sun? Would you rather idle in the Sakura’s shade, never knowing summer’s heat?’
Cool as a mountain stream, the poet said nothing.
‘There is more to life than this. There are things to excite the soul, to stimulate the senses, to fill your heart with pleasure and joy. I have seen them all, down in the towns, the villages. Illicit joy’s the like of which you cannot begin to imagine.’
The voice changed, bending from deep growl to booming contentment. A beard, the burnt crimson of a squirrel’s tail, hugged the man’s well fed features. Smiling warmly, the figure reclined in the sand, scratching his naked stomach.
‘I can make your fantasies reality,’ he boomed, his voice like thunder, shaking the birds from their rest, high in the canopy above, ‘all I ask is one thing. Give yourself to me.’
Breathing softly, calmly; the poet picked up his brush.
A light breeze swam through the grove, winding past the reclining form of the man, grotesque in his nakedness. It reached the poet and paused; caressing his face with air kissed by snow, then continued its dance across the mountain. Feather following, the poet slashed the sand.
Sun, naked on skin,
Pleasure turns swiftly to pain;
Burnt, fool hunts shadow
Pleasure turns swiftly to pain;
Burnt, fool hunts shadow
The feather slept at the poet’s side. Smouldering, the wolf read his words, once, twice, growling deep in his cavernous throat. He glanced at the poet’s face, calm as a mountain lake, and turned, defeated. On paws as white as innocence, the wolf returned to the trees, silently, mosquitoes riding his fur.
#
Aki
Memories of spring blossomed in the leaves of the Sakura, turning them a deep, burnished red. In the grass, insects hurried from place to place, collecting, gathering, lost in a world hidden from sight. A deer drank quietly from the lake. Birdsong, high and lilting, floated on a breeze made heavy with the smell of wood fire, lifted from the valley below.
The poet, motionless, sat cross legged beneath the Sakura’s branches, eyes closed.
A blanket of orange and red covered the surface of the lake, much thicker than the blossoms of spring. Insects rode the fallen leaves, sailing on an ocean of colour.
In the stillness of the grove, someone coughed.
The poet opened his eyes, and looked into pools as limpid as his own, reflecting. Before him sat a mirror of himself, perfect in every detail, from the long, black hair, to the creases that ran in shadow, rivers of darkness, flowing down his white robe.
‘Tell me,’ it said, in a voice unheard, ‘why do you not sell your poems?’
It watched the poet’s expression carefully, unchanging, and continued, ‘Do you not think it selfish, hiding them away in solitude, secreted in the ever changing beauty of this grove? Think of the pleasure you would bring to the people below. Think of the money your words could buy you, the opulence you would surely be given.’
The reflection smiled, teeth glinting with concealed malice. A wolf’s smile.
‘I am you. This is what you desire most. What we desire most.’
Behind the tree, a deer ran leaping into the safety of the forest.
‘Together,’ it whispered, leaning forward, conspiratorial, a secret between friends, ‘we could be rich and famous, emperors of poetry. All I ask is one thing.’
The poet lifted his brush.
‘Give yourself to me.’
His face betraying no emotion, the poet stared into his own eyes, watching himself. The air quivered around a feather, tickled by words unwritten. Grains avoided slashes.
A lakes reflection
Breaks from the smallest ripple,
Framed by fallen leaves
Breaks from the smallest ripple,
Framed by fallen leaves
Its battle won, the feather rested in the sand, triumphant. Reflection faded, the wolf stared angrily at the slashes in the sand, feeling the words seep like wine into his soul. It swished its snow white tail, and padded away, out of sight, defeated by the movement of a brush.
#
Fuyu
Snow, white and innocent, covered the mountain. It fell softly, soundlessly; settling on the branches of an ancient Sakura, proud and naked in the grove.
Steam rose ghostlike from the lake’s surface, forming faces in the mist, dancing and singing as they twisted in the cold, winter air. Something moved, unseen, in the water. Footprints crossed the pale canvas, each a memory of life, preserved in the fragility of the snow.
A breeze, tearful and alone, spread its fingers in the grove, softly touching the tips of branches, shaking the powder from their embrace. It sighed as it passed the poet, still sitting, cross legged and tranquil, beneath the protective arms of the Sakura.
Invisible, the wolf moved through the trees.
The wind gasped, and returned to the poet, running its gentle fingers through his raven hair, warning him of the approaching danger.
The poet opened his eyes, watching as the wolf made its way across the thick blanket of snow. It stopped before the tree, poems of sand between them, and whispered.
‘Please. Tell me,’ its voice was sad, drained, free from strength and malice, ‘why will you not come with me? Why will you not be mine?’
It tilted its head, crimson eyes searching the poet’s face, ‘I have offered you love, excitement, and wealth. What more could I offer? All I want is to be with you, to be by your side, to see you smile. Is this too much to ask?’
The wolf padded gently forwards, careful to avoid the slashes in the sand, ‘This grove is lonely and cold. It hurts to see you here, season after season, alone but for the feather of your brush.’
‘Come with me, I beg of you, and together we shall be happy.’
Steaming, the wolf’s words floated on the air. It reached down beside the poet, to clasp its jaws around the brush.
Where a feather once lay, there was only snow.
A tear, glittering like a precious stone, fell from the wolf’s eye, and landed harmoniously amid the snowflakes, sad, and defeated.
The poet raised one delicately pale hand, and stroked the wolf’s head, gently, feeling the soft fur flow beneath his fingers.
Loving and warm, the wolf licked the poet’s hand. He smiled, and leant forward, reaching toward his canvas.
In the snow, cut by a slender finger, grooves became words.
On mountain lakes, snow
Becomes steam, rising softly,
A kiss between foes
Becomes steam, rising softly,
A kiss between foes
Eyes flitting across white, the wolf read the poet’s words. Another tear fell, crystal like, into the snow. He lay down, silently, beside the poet, and closed his eyes. Spring would arrive soon, bringing colour and love to the mountain. The wolf smiled. He could wait. He had all the time in the world.
