With her sinuous gait, she will sashay down the ramp and ease herself into your heart’s precincts. You pinch your skin and rub your eyes in disbelief, for this is too wonderful to be true. But she is real, like the moon, beautiful, large and glowing. You try to explain her away as a passing storm – after all, light fades, charm fizzles. But no, she stays and her image lingers on your eyes, like the whiff of a colleen’s fresh hair, like the gentle touch of an infant. You learn that when she comes, she comes not to leave, and when you behold her, you don’t see the back of transience but the very visage of immortality.
TIGGA TALES 