My wings are clipped now.
I am too old to soar weightless among the clouds and I have to spend my days gazing upwards, watching a game of noughts and crosses playing across the sky.
Cotton wool no longer brings images of fluffy clouds and serene peacefulness, but rather it reminds me that when it is full of liquid it escapes in a slow dribble at first, then rushes down the trunks and legs of anything in its way to form a puddle of something murky on the ground. Not the fresh water that had first been taken in but the result of toxins and man made substances and polution.
The blue of the sky and bright sunlight bouncing off clouds and glass, no longer serves to make my heart sing but rather mocks my decent to the earth and that stomach gripping feeling of falling out of the sky is replaced by a fear of death and the inevitable darkness that follows the descent into the earth.
All these years I thought that while I was up there I was so close to God - when really down here, now that I am old, I am closer to him than I have ever been.
Awen/ Bren
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