"To every woman her own truth and the Goddess within"*
Reminiscent of the cherry blossoms but golden and auburn, glistening in the rain soaked pavements, like delicate butterflies in the dry bright autumn sunshine or sparkling in the first morning frosts.
Gently floating down. In front of my eyes. All around me. I would stretch out my arms and spin around to catch them as they fall. But I do not. Instead I walk, scrunching through the parchment down as I go, and stop at the waterside. Calm and clear. Reflecting the trees with their blaze of colours and the bright blue sky.
If I close my eyes, I can tune out the light traffic sound. Closer to the castle, the sound of workmen hammering is more difficult to ignore. But their efforts will mean that someone will have a home with a wonderful view of the castle so, in true liberal fashion, I cannot complain.
It is a magical place. Every time I visit, I feel uplifted. I do not visit often enough. But resolutions are easily broken so I make none here. And what makes it magical can also make it lonely on rainy days and dark shadowy nights.
Perhaps it is my home which is being built, so the castle is the first thing I will see when I awake and the last when I retire.
In my dreams . . .
