Mid-Summer’s Reverie

As I got out for work one morning, I felt a touch of fresh summery zephyr gently fanning on my face. The earth was coloured in a natural hue; the lush, luxuriant green vegetation bore unfailing witness to it. A pungent smell of dampness wafted past and a light drizzle rendered the dale a disarmingly dampened look. Women with swarthy skin, armed with an arsenal of spades, scythes and sickles decked those fervid fields in a magnificent mosaic, while taut-muscled men wrought behind the yokes. Children were hard-pressed at play—it was time for paper-boats and not a least tinge of inclination to forgo that moment was apparent on their faces, which were mostly garlanded in carefree smiles.  Even the birds sang their best summer songs while the boughs they perched on played music in the background with the patter of rain and rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, I spotted a scarecrow. It was in rags with sunken eyes, but it had its arms wide open and ready for a quick bear hug. I was wondering if it hadn’t been hard for it keeping itself still and still doing its job—to scare crows and aught at all!

Just then, my eyes began to play with me. Possibly like a psychedelic effect, I saw it transform into a lovely lass. I could barely help falling for her with—

Her effulgent eyes embellished in mascara,

Her silky raven tresses cascading loose,

Her majestic mien wrought in rouge,

Her succulent lips done in affluent peach,

Her manicured fingers conspicuously reposing on the lap,

Her svelte body adorned in vogue…

I wondered if she wasn’t someone from Cannes, up for the next edition’s a million-dollar coverpage close-up in a leading fashion mag. She was truly irresistible and the look she wore drew me closer to her, quite inadvertently. With every new step I advanced towards her, my body began to shudder. It was a sweet strange feeling. And by the time I was only an inch or two away from her, I could scarcely lift my brows and look into her eyes. Her look was sharp and disconcerting. Before I could do aught silly, a beep in my cellular phone broke the spell. I was standing right before the scarecrow in rags.

Eventually, I realized that it must have kept its arms open perhaps it felt neglected and lonely. Or perhaps, its open arms were its dying attempt to convey its woes of loneliness and muffled whispers of wanting love. And I was utterly overjoyed that I could at least decode the stuck-in-the-solitude scarecrow’s bottled-up emotions even though I half decided to take it as my La belle Dame Sans Merci and then, forget it all.