3 October 2012
On a cold winters night, I sit upon my favourite battered, old leather arm chair. A fresh hot cup of tea by my side and my favourite novel at the ready. I glance out the impressive bay window to the tenements opposite. The large sandstone blocks, assemble a jigsaw of homes and of people's lives hidden within. The silver birch that stands proud outside my window has long since lost its autumn glory. Gone are its amber and mahogany leaves. It's branches now stretch out towards the night, it's fingers gnarl and frame the bay window opposite. All curtains and gossamer nets are closed, but one. The room is barely lit, but the high ceiling light casts a spotlight upon their tender embrace. Taking centre stage at their window, the warmth of this kiss emits a beautiful glow of love. If on her tip toes, her arms drape affectionately round his neck; his body bent towards her, welcoming her passionately. I am unable to remove my eyes from the scene. Captivated by this moment of devotion. His masculine arms hold her tight, and her hands move through his hair. Although I can't see them, I know there are intense sparks arising from their embrace. The first flutters of snow begin to float by. He clasps her head in his hands, his lips move. They turn towards the window, smile, then the curtains are drawn.
*should say this is inspired by a watercolour I have in my house
The Kiss • Opuss № I