Each Handful of Day


She could turn as she held each day as a season. From the bright emerging green of spring, through the softer blooming of the coloured summer through the golds, reds and fading away of the autumn to the white bare winter the days would wait for her.

She had all the days anyone could need as well as the time to take each one on the palm of her hand and hold it up to the light of the sun. Each day was there for her, waiting for her to give it a name and a place in her cupboard of memories, labelled with all she found inside it.

She found new worlds in each of the days she held up to the light. There were strange faraway worlds where monsters grew out of the mists and flew beyond the mountains. There were worlds of men doing great deeds and women finding how their lands worked and each learning the mysteries of how the stars revolved about them.

There was everything and everywhere. Each day held something new for her to take back to that cottage by the sea. There she could stare out to the far horizon and wonder if there was anyone else out there across that wide sea as lonely as her.


Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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