It’s a place where the vagrant dreamer beats his primrose path with reckless abandon, on the cusp of inspired clarity; where mysteries and muse coalesce, and the eager mind meets the wonder of its own volition.
Brilliance of beaming thoughts flurry on the footpath like the mischief of mice that scuttle by, disturbing the fragile leafy bedding, mocking the cry of hounds sniffing in the distance. It hides in the dark, where you can read by the moonlight, providing a luminescent backdrop to the towering forest of juggernaut pines. A soft, lavender hush clinging to each errant breeze softens the fall of Autumn’s fugitive leaves, calming confusion and strife as they find new solace beneath ancient oaks’ creaking limbs. By morning’s first light, the hanging silence is breached by the ensuant beams of honey-hued iridescence, and the last of the renegade dewdrops abandoned by the sleeping midnight mist shimmer like diamond dust. There’s a bubbling brook nearby, and it proudly ripples with enthusiasm as it empties into the lake’s placid reflection of the powder blue sky. The river rocks glow like jewel-toned crystals resting on the water’s edge, waiting for the afternoon tide to sheath the frothy shoals in a cover of glass. There’s a lake somepace, where you can read by the moonlight.