Thursday Blog Hop.

Visit www.Caroleecrafts.blogspot.com and see all the other blogs taking part in their own particular field, lots of variety.

I wrote this a few years ago and have just come across it so thought now might be a good time to give it an airing.


A Reflection

The cold, grey eyes returned the look from the mirror.  A rare combination, redhair and grey eyes.
He had come up through a hard school of life and the lessons had certainly been tough.  No longer did his eyes reflect his soul or his mouth voice his thoughts.  Oh yes, he had learnt well.

Reared by his dour Scots maternal Grandmother with little 'love' but plenty of 'duty' and the constant reminder of his lack of a known Father.  His mother had left this harsh life when he was three.

Kirk twice a week and basic, plain food resulted in no capacity for pleasure according to the strict Church beliefs.

School was no better, ostracised and called 'A bastard'.

In his loneleness he burried his head in books and acquired a sound education.

One final look in the mirror.  Had it gone too far?  Was it too late to evacuate this shell that had protected him all these years?

He almost broke free of it once, long ago now, but again, had left it too late and lost the only person who had dented his armour.  Felt like another lifetime ago and now Grandmother finally joined her north-of-the-border ancestors which necessitated him sorting out all her personal papers.

Some very startling, if not brainstorming information had come to light leaving him reeling with shock.

He had a Son.

His wife, she still was that as they never divorced, had written to Grandmother several times over the years trying to locate him.  Odd that she had kept the letters when obviously had no intention of passing them on.

He had been a Father for 10 years.  They were married in Sydney, Australia but having suffered such isolation in childhood he had been totally unprepared for the closeness needed to keep the relationship alive.
He had hurt her, he knew that but wanted to stay safe in his clinically, neat and tidy little world and she was here in Edinburgh.  His wife and son. 

Something else he had learned in the sort-out.  He wasn't a bastard after all. He had found his Mothers marriage certificate and other papers proving he was the legitimate son of the man he could now call Father who knew nothing of his existance.  A farmer of means which he would eventually inherit and pass on to his own son and heir, hopefully breaking the cycle which his late Grandmother had put in motion.

James straightened his back and marched out of his house into his future.

The Tree of many colours.

Thursday blog hope has come round again and we are experiencing an Indian summer.  Enough to make one wax lyrical isnt it.  Check out all the  lovely crafty objects via Caroleecrafts.blogspot.com

Oh Tree of many colours,

Long shadows towards night.

Time for casting off the worn,

And keeping loved ones tight.

The solemn rituals of life,

The need to store and nest.

To gather winter fuel and food,

Put stamina to the test.

Maybe we think, as humans,

We are above the rest.

Our instincts are still animal,

Who says they’re not the best?

Three recycled cards from one of my birthday cards plus a bit.

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago.  I like to keep the cards up for some time knowing that they have cost someone time and money to remember me and that way I can show my appreciation. 
Today was the day they came down from the mantlepiece and window ledge for recycling.   It always surprises me just how much you can cut out of one card.