silver birch bare against the whitewash

*

This silver birch grows by a wee bowling green in Queen's Park. The side of the clubhouse had been whitewashed to try and remove the graffiti from it. Something about the whiteish bark of the tree against the white of the wall captured my interest.
Today, I passed it a little earlier than normal and the sun was directly on it throwing its shadow onto the wall. To me it seemed that the tree had emerged from the wall. The white tree has taken shape and moved out of the blank void into an entity, a living thing. All it leaves is its shadow trace on the canvas it lifted from.

**
Happiness writes white. And I have been happy today. My contented mood has risen from the canvas of emotions. And now with the sun of memory hard upon it, it casts this shadow scratch of writing: a trace of its passing.

For I was up early and the dawn glowed orange like a toaster grill against the bricks of the building. Someone from the flat above me made music with their high-heeled steps down the stairwell. click click clickclick click..... Echoing in a bounce of readiness and purpose.
As I myself stepped out and down the hill, there was a frost upon the ground, the grass. Cars huddled by the pavement in hard, thin night-freeze. Yet the sun was in warm ascension. The dew trembled in the sun's regard, carpeting the grass with faerie light.
At the bus stop lovers laughed and teased and talked and kissed peck peck every other word somehow unable to break the bond of their parting. A stewardess appeared dressed and ready to take to the skies. A mother smiling and chatting to her child, hand in hand.
The bus soon appeared and split all of this into fragments of the morning. A little later, when I was already deep in the moment's saddle - quite unexpectedly, and in a part of town completely at odds from where I usually see her - she passed by the stationary bus. In ear muffs.

As I type now, a workday deeper into this well of moments, the sun still shines upon my face. My son has popped in from school and is off out a while. My daughter has texted me and is meeting a friend for coffee after work before heading here.
These are good times. These are the only times, but today they are good ones. I recognise them and claim them as my own and leave others these marks of their having passed. 

I hope today my fellow blippers have drank from this same contended well of moments, for you are here in the very flow of mine.

Onwards !