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Heartwards (Chapter 4 of 5)
IV - The Cathedral
The fizz of lunchtime lunacy unhurriedly matured into an intoxicating late afternoon—Mildred, beavering away with her writing; whittling its rough edges into a refined carving of words. Miles and Milo, in variations of sandcastle-decorating; paddling and splashing in the famously cold British late summer sea (with one special guest appearance from Mildred for all of five minutes); burying each other neck-deep in the sand; and candid and posed photographs taken by all three of them on Miles’ Polaroid camera.
With the Sun now dangling in its deepening ripeness, Mildred peeked above her notepad with a keen satisfaction about her countenance, brushing a vine of silvery hair away from her face and behind her ear.
“Aaand—done!”
“You’ve finished your poem, mum? Ooh—can we hear it?”
“Absolutely!” gleamed Mildred with a quiet childlike spark, “ahem—
O fragil’ dawnlit chorus—
Avert my eastward gaze
From that morning star aways,
As so to not implore us
Into soft aglown temptation—
Planting sly a seed
To ignore ingrainèd need
For so oft ungrown redemption.
And flown seaward the shoal—
The assurèd eventide
In which true light does glide
Through eyes of purest soul.”
“—very nice, mum. The last few lines give me a warm feeling inside.” Not well-versed in the art of poetry, Miles still found pleasance in his mother’s words. They sent him pastward into his youth where, before bed, Mildred would read him nursery rhymes as well as her own poems written especially for her cherished son—her candlelit face softly lulling Miles into a peaceful slumber.
“And you used ‘glide’ like I said, Nana!”
Milo couldn’t quite grasp the poem’s themes or nuances but was still enamoured from its delivery, recited by his Nana with a theatrical pomp.
“That I did, Milo! And I’m ever so grateful for your assistance—I’ll be sure to co-credit you if I ever get these published,” Mildred uttered with a wink.
As a sheeted chill spread across the sky, it signalled to the Heartward family that the best part of the day’s heat was being snuffed out by the all-consuming cloud cover. Bags all now stuffed with casually-rolled towels and sand-smattered beachwear, the three of them stood in a sombre acknowledgment and gratitude for the beach and their many newly-made memories.
“Say thank you to Hawfare now, Milo.”
“Thank you, Hawfare.”
A ritual of giving thanks to a location for gifting a special time to the family was embedded into Miles by his ever-daydreaming mother.
“Oh, aren’t you boys so precious. Thank you ever so much Hawfare, you have been just the most fabulous host to us all. We’ll see you in another time or dream.”
“Milo—don’t...
The fizz of lunchtime lunacy unhurriedly matured into an intoxicating late afternoon—Mildred, beavering away with her writing; whittling its rough edges into a refined carving of words. Miles and Milo, in variations of sandcastle-decorating; paddling and splashing in the famously cold British late summer sea (with one special guest appearance from Mildred for all of five minutes); burying each other neck-deep in the sand; and candid and posed photographs taken by all three of them on Miles’ Polaroid camera.
With the Sun now dangling in its deepening ripeness, Mildred peeked above her notepad with a keen satisfaction about her countenance, brushing a vine of silvery hair away from her face and behind her ear.
“Aaand—done!”
“You’ve finished your poem, mum? Ooh—can we hear it?”
“Absolutely!” gleamed Mildred with a quiet childlike spark, “ahem—
O fragil’ dawnlit chorus—
Avert my eastward gaze
From that morning star aways,
As so to not implore us
Into soft aglown temptation—
Planting sly a seed
To ignore ingrainèd need
For so oft ungrown redemption.
And flown seaward the shoal—
The assurèd eventide
In which true light does glide
Through eyes of purest soul.”
“—very nice, mum. The last few lines give me a warm feeling inside.” Not well-versed in the art of poetry, Miles still found pleasance in his mother’s words. They sent him pastward into his youth where, before bed, Mildred would read him nursery rhymes as well as her own poems written especially for her cherished son—her candlelit face softly lulling Miles into a peaceful slumber.
“And you used ‘glide’ like I said, Nana!”
Milo couldn’t quite grasp the poem’s themes or nuances but was still enamoured from its delivery, recited by his Nana with a theatrical pomp.
“That I did, Milo! And I’m ever so grateful for your assistance—I’ll be sure to co-credit you if I ever get these published,” Mildred uttered with a wink.
As a sheeted chill spread across the sky, it signalled to the Heartward family that the best part of the day’s heat was being snuffed out by the all-consuming cloud cover. Bags all now stuffed with casually-rolled towels and sand-smattered beachwear, the three of them stood in a sombre acknowledgment and gratitude for the beach and their many newly-made memories.
“Say thank you to Hawfare now, Milo.”
“Thank you, Hawfare.”
A ritual of giving thanks to a location for gifting a special time to the family was embedded into Miles by his ever-daydreaming mother.
“Oh, aren’t you boys so precious. Thank you ever so much Hawfare, you have been just the most fabulous host to us all. We’ll see you in another time or dream.”
“Milo—don’t...
