I know someone who finds it hard to sleep. This is written to help them towards getting some rest.
It is a wonderful summer’s evening. One of us knocks on the other’s door and we head out together, clad in our dark waterproof gear. Neither of us say anything very much. The mood is one for silence both within and without. We don’t even need to make eye contact, just to walk and to be companionable in the silence.
Our walk is special and spacious, it winds and flows about us. The birds talk to themselves as we go past, our movements not bothering them. We brush the outskirts of the tree-covered hills, but wilderness is not the thing today. Instead, we head down again, into the parkland, where we will let the path playfully lead us along its way.
It winds like a circling tale, but ultimately brings us further down the hill, to a slope we can feel in our calves. We touch the trees on the way down to steady ourselves, each crackled bark made soft under our palms. Again, neither of us talk much, or need to. Instead, we just walk together, letting the fancy take us as it might.
We come out an old door on to the canal walk, a deserted place. The stream that flows by us is busy, and in a hurry, all bubbles and gurgles as it goes. The sun is giving its last efforts in a low-lying burst, and our eyes hurt from its strength. For the longest time, we stroll, watching leaves and twigs float along with us.
Your hand is near mine. Neither of us take the other’s. It is not the right ambiance to allow it.
The stream broadens in just a few yards to a river, with wide banks. It’s glassy broadness pulses along at a stronger, but slower, pace, and we find ourselves slowing too, until we come to a stop. There is no particular reason to pause here over any other sight, we just do. Soon you sit down, on a fallen tree, and I do likewise. Our hands do not touch, and we do not speak.
It grows darker. The sky moves to a sombre navy, and swifts with their sharp angled wings swirl above us. And we sit, and we breathe, and we watch the river. And we do not say anything, nor ask the other to say anything either. The moon glides silently above us to sit, and to shine, and to guide the river’s way.
And we sit, and we watch the river, and we do not need to say a word.
Night night.
Shameful Desires 