The golden light seems to curve around her supple limbs as she dips her stomach and flexes her head back up to the fading sky. Waves gurgle in the distance, like gentle white noise against the haze of children’s chatter. Gulls call out as she pushes her back upwards, arched easily like a cat, with a trail of blonde hair cascading down onto her mat.

The wind purrs against her skin, warm, gentle, as though an artist were tracing her form, learning the stroke of her arcs – plotting the concaves. She gently guides her students, with brief, breathy flourishes of instruction. Utterly lost in the rhythm of each inhale and exhale, her body folds and unfolds; it waves and winds, twists and turns. She glides as though she were being pushed around a canvas, a glistening deep mauve, swirling in smooth, meandering strokes. Her creator must be lost, in the bends of twilight, writhing in the last embers of a summer’s day – warmed by an aromatic glass of red and bidding the moment last just a little while longer.

Let me first master the sun bleached hues of her hair, he sighs, absorbing the pale freckles that dance upon her face. Bringing the white foam up from the waves and lacing through the sandy golds, he sweeps her hair downwards once more. Is that what you see? He ponders: Do you see the energy, like me?

*Painting by Arthur Orum, St.Ives



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