ZILLA

ZILLA

The morning sun danced across the vast blue, poured its light onto the world. From cloudless skies it gleamed, striking the surface of the stream with a dazzling intensity. It was a modest, winding stream that tumbled over smooth stones, its water crystal clear and cool. Birds, a constant flutter of wings, and a chorus of chirps, frequented its banks. They would alight and bathe in the shallows, sending shimmers of water scattering like diamonds on the sun-drenched pebbles. I sat on a moss-covered boulder, a blank notebook, tapping with the pen in my fingers. Kensington Park, tucked away from the noise and rush of the town, was a poet’s sanctuary.

My name is Wintry, and I am, for lack of a more fanciful term, a scriber. I find my inspiration in the quiet corners of the world, the places where nature weaves its intricate tapestry. And this particular spot in the park, with its symphony of light and sound, held a special kind of magic. I had come here seeking solace after a particularly grueling week. The demands of the city, the relentless pressure to conform, had left me feeling brittle and hollow. But here, amongst the whispering willows and the playful splash of water, I felt myself slowly piecing back together.

And then she arrived that spring day.

She was a shadow at first, appearing at the edge of my peripheral vision, a tall silhouette against the bright backdrop of the woods. She moved with a quiet grace, the kind that suggests a deep understanding of the forest’s rhythms. I watched her as she approached, my heart a strange, erratic drum against my ribs. She had dark, unruly hair that fell over her forehead, and eyes the colour of a stormy sea. She carried a book, and one hand clutched a leather handbag. She didn’t notice me at first, her attention fixed on the stream. She moved with a practiced ease, her eyes bedazzled by the
water, her movements as fluid as the water itself. For a long moment, I lost myself in watching her. There was a quiet intensity about her, a focused energy that was both captivating and disarming. When She finally did look up, her gaze met mine. It was a long, silent moment, a spark of recognition flashing between us. A faint smile touched her lips, and I found myself returning it, a feeling of warmth spreading through me.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, her voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I come here often to ponder. It’s the only place I can find any peace.”

“It’s a beautiful spot,” I managed to say, my voice a little breathy. “I come here to write.”

She looked at my notebook, which lay open on my lap, and a knowing smile curved her lips. “You’re a poet then?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m Wintry.”

“Zilla,” she replied, extending her hand.

Her hand was warm and calloused, and when our fingers brushed, I felt a jolt, a strange kind of energy that seemed to vibrate through my entire being. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking. We spoke of our passions, our dreams, our fears. We discovered a shared love for literature, for the quiet beauty of the natural world, for the things that often get overlooked in the hustle and bustle of daily life. Zilla, I learned, worked as a Librarian, fancied old books, and the fine literature. She spoke of the Greeks with a reverence, admired the Persians, describing their tales and beautiful stanzas. I, in turn, spoke of the way I tried to capture that beauty they wrote about, the challenge of translating the world’s complexities through a few lines of my own.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, a comfortable silence settled between us. I looked out at the stream, the water now reflecting the fiery sky. It was a scene of breathtaking beauty, and for the first time, I felt a sense of joy that went beyond the purely aesthetic. It was a warmth that emanated from within, a feeling of connection I hadn’t known I craved. There was something in her eyes, a depth of understanding that mirrored the feelings swirling in my own heart. I need to say something. Anything. We walked a few steps and converged under an old oak tree, its branches a sprawling canopy that filtered the afternoon sun into a mosaic of light and shadow. Beneath it, we grew silent, lost in the gentle murmur of the nearby creek. That’s when the words tumbled out, unbidden, unplanned.

I breathed, the words escaping me before I could take them back,

“Beneath the boughs where dappled sunlight streams,
A creek will babble secrets to the air.”

Zilla, who had been examining a wildflower, turned towards me. Her eyes, the color of warm honey, sparkled with amusement. She smiled,

“I’ll weave my life in patterns soft as dreams,
And let my cares dissolve like morning’s glare.”

And there, in the unexpected beauty of her response, in the almost poetic cadence of her voice mirroring my own, I knew fate was laughing, and had ordained this meeting. It wasn’t just a coincidence; it was a connection, a strange, undeniable tug between our souls. Our chemistry, I realized with a jolt, wasn’t just there; it was timed. It clicked. Our hearts, it seemed, had found a shared frequency.

“How weird was that?” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, her brow slightly furrowed as if trying to process the strangeness of it as well.

“Yes, strange,” I replied, words were inadequate to describe the symphony of emotions swirling inside me. I paused, the quiet of the woods suddenly amplifying the beating of my heart. I dipped into that strange, unbidden well of words again. “And if said,” I continued carefully,

“Like a fool in beauty’s sway,
My heart is trapped in the fury of hell.”

The playful light in her eyes dimmed as she bit her lip, a gesture that was both charming and vulnerable. She pondered for a moment, her gaze locked onto mine, and then, with a soft exhale, responded,

“For your warm hugs and kisses I dwell,
Lost in your dreams, in chains I lay.”

The air grew thick, charged with an unspoken electricity. My eyes widened, and a wave of dizziness washed over me as I nearly swooned. The words she’d uttered had resonated with an intensity that bordered on the surreal. They were both incredibly dramatic and remarkably honest. It was as though we were speaking a language only we understood, a secret code whispered across the dappled sunlight of the glade. My mind struggled to catch up, to find the words to articulate the emotions that were threatening to consume me. How could someone, a near stranger moments ago, elicit such raw and powerful feelings with just a few shared lines?

I could only stare at her, the soft curve of her cheek, the way the light caught the amber in her eyes. All I could feel was the sharp, exhilarating realization that I was standing on the precipice of something extraordinary, something that had begun with a greeting in the woods and a spontaneous, nonsensical exchange of poetically strange musings. And the best part? It felt terrifyingly, wonderfully real. That day marked a turning point. We began to meet regularly at the creek, our conversations evolving and deepening with each passing day. We shared picnics amidst the wildflowers, read poetry aloud under the shade of the ancient trees, and watched the sunset paint the sky in a kaleidoscope of colors. We learned the nuances of each other’s souls, the quiet rhythms of our hearts. We discovered that the things that drew us both to the quiet corners of the world were the very things that bonded us together. We taught each other the language of the forest, the subtle shifts in the wind, the different songs of the birds, and the secrets that the trees held in their rings. Our friendship blossomed into something more, a gentle, persistent current of affection that swept us both away. It was a love that was rooted in shared passions, a love that was built on a foundation of mutual respect and understanding. One evening, as we sat by the creek, the moon hanging like a silver disc in the velvet sky, Zilla took my hand in hers. Her touch sent a wave of warmth through me, and I looked up at her, my heart overflowing with tenderness.

“Wintry,” she said, her voice filled with emotion, “I think… I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, tears of joy, tears of relief. “I think I’m falling in love with you, too, Zilla.”

We didn’t need more words. The silence that followed was filled with a profound understanding, a mutual recognition that we had found something truly special. We spent hours that night, just talking, holding each other, watching the moonbeams dance on the surface of the water. The creek, our haven, had become the place where we discovered not only the beauty of the world around us, but also the beauty that resonated within each other. And as I looked at Zilla, her face bathed in the soft moonlight, I knew that I had found my sanctuary, my home, in her heart. The kiss that followed was like the first bloom of a flower, delicate and full of promise. It was the culmination of quiet glances and shared laughter, of tentative touches and whispered secrets. It was the start of something new and wonderful, a love that had blossomed amidst the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of the spring. The honour and wealth I felt that day, in the presence of such beauty, had only multiplied, blossoming into a love that was as deep and enduring as the forest itself. The sun, the stream, the birds – they were only a part of a larger picture, a picture of love that was perfect in its simplicity, a masterpiece crafted by the quiet magic of a hidden creek.

Her love had awakened me, it was a feeling that was as vibrant and alive as the season itself. And there, in her arms, under the boughs of the tree, I knew with unwavering certainty: this was where my heart would rest, now and forever.

©Habib Dabajeh