My old winters. Flogged roofs. Some leaks. Slight colds. We´re three to the window leant. The rain shaking the field. Concerts of humidity and dazzling braziers. The kitchen and the patience of grandma before the stove. A lightning bolt cracked the clouds. We covered our ears. We jumped with the fury of a thunder. An old apple tree broke in two. Gladiator, the dog, moaned trembling in its hiding place… And suddenly, as if nothing, the thick stillness. Little by little the minutes bring back a landscape as reflected in a mirror. A ghostly rainbow began to reign over the heights. And we went out to play in the tiny islands. A paradise emerged in front of us. The clay figures. An improvised raft. A turbulent river towards an imaginary sea. Now Gladiator barking happily. Then, the rain come back and we returned to the house dripping mud. We were made of chocolate. Grandma put us in the bathroom. The hot water sliding down over our backs. Finally, the importance of the brazier. Everybody around it wearing pajamas. Shoes and socks giving off steam from our hands. Childish jokes, a weak push, waiting for the bread to cool in the basket. The warm milk in the clay cups. Six months of rain per year. Six months of short days. Winters of sweet adventure. The time passed slowly.
Winters Field (English version by zenith 1) | Ecency
