By Anne Palmer
High and Low
High aloft, adorned, to sit in metal tube with wings of fuel and fire. Far below, aged watch and muse. A pension springs from such desire. Up, yet further up, higher and higher to worlds of silence. And to wallow among island clouds into that uncharted abyss where no birdsong could follow. Here was no shadow before man came flitting fast across clouds below. He rides with hope, there is no blame for any stain upon the snow. Each one leaving behind the echo of their flight, the carriages of kings rich and noble, marking the restless sky, an unending river of wings.
The Wrong Image
She searched the face purely out of vanity, checking every minute detail for flawlessness and clarity. The eyes were warm, the forehead expressive. The mouth showed determination, tenacity, someone possessive. The hair was long and dark. The nose slightly aquiline. The mould of the chin showed integrity, the skin both pale and fine. The face was quite attractive for one having seen some years, but the lines on the face were apparent, underlining her fears. The likeness was there she could not hide. It was the cruel honesty she couldn’t abide. It was good, it was striking, in fact there was no defect. But the artist hadn’t been kind, her portrait she would have to reject.