The Flower on the Lamppost

The Beauty of Love

The flower's senses surfacing to the magical view of ice covering everything in her sight was truly pleasant for all she'd expected from the nightmare of a deluge last night.

Icicles standing elegantly in every protrusion, each poised in the shape of drops stilled whilst dribbling earthward, glinting beautifully in the slight rays of sun that flared in dazzling light. The skilful detail evident in everything this season had left at its wake was undeniably the make of the Creator who has proved His finesse even in the beauty of trifling displays.

Every shift of cold breeze that whistled past her would bring quivers as they flew. The bloom was engaged in mesmerising her attention by watching the frosts that had woven their way around surfaces in intricate designs. She could not watch what was within the warm café, for a misty fog had draped itself over the large glass window.

The brittle and crystalline wedges of ice, that hung from every projection built to bring vintage beauty to the building, added cold to the atmosphere around her, but seemed as if the transparent designs and specs of ice swirling within them like the aurorae which paint the Nordic skies, that had frozen still to forge this tantalising craft of nature, had begun to slowly recommence their dance as the temperature had begun to rise.

Those that walked past: familiar faces, now that she could recognise the ones that frequented the neighbourhood, did not seem to be enthralled by this pristine beauty, but simply drew their cloaks closer and walked on. She wondered: there was so much to be admired and yet, all of that taken for granted.

The only ones she'd beheld paying heed to the beauty around them was an aged couple, the man pushing the strange chair with wheels upon which the woman sat. She seemed like she was not granted the blessing of walking thereforth, but the joy she took in merely being able to be in the world and appreciating the love of the bearer of her wheeled-chair. She talked to the man like hearing the birds sing was a privilege. Perhaps she had unseeing eyes that took mirth in the sounds of joy around her? It was pleasant, however.

The door of the café opened for the blond man to step out, his boys following him with the weight of all the boxed of cakes and the blankets they were carrying challenging their balance and might. The man himself had several in his arms as he handed one out to a distraught man seated by the side of the street, huddled in patched blankets to keep from the biting cold. The sight of joy arising out of the depths of his eyes at the offer was like hope seen in finding an oasis in the windswept wields by a lost wanderer in the dead of the moonless night. The man took it, gratitude evident from his palms held together and the water pricking the corners of his eyes. The man from the tea-place smiled in respect and walked away.
The boys that followed his tread, carrying the cakes and blankets, began belting out a tune in a song as they marched along. Their voices clashed in aimless bass and tenor, but the joy and heart with which they sang drew the passersby that stopped to and lend their attention.

"The distribution of bread?" a lady's voice rang; "It's a lovely tradition they carry" said another, "The same song, but a tune every year."

Swaying to the beat, she watched till their cakes and blankets satisfied the needs of each hungry soul. So the candles were lit again. Their sound rang loud as it faded and faded, till the distance they conquered down the streets was greater than to grant it to be heard.

It took a long while, possibly hours and hours, before the sound of their tuneless song was heard yet again, approaching the streets, their might overcome with fatigue, but their passion still fresh. Each boy sauntered into the café, sleeves rolled up their arms and shirts spilling untucked. Their booming song ceased midway down the street and they resorted to talking and laughing about some little children in an orphanage and some about the destitute elderly in a home, though it seemed like the respective people walking those lives made jovial company.