Seven children are playing in silver drifts. Their red cheeks are glowing like ripe apple fruits. They have wet mittens on their stiff cold fingers, but their hands are eagerly raising new turrets and towers.

 

Alive are now ancient tales and myths of medieval mistresses in golden gowns, of their brave knights and valiant kings. And lonely queens with lovers like Lancelot.

 

Up on a hill in a quaint cottage close to Camelot there lives an old lady dreaming in solitude.

 

She is humming a happy tune as she pours her magic potion from a porcelain pot painted with pink roses, whilst gazing out through her western window at a wondrous sight of a walled town in snow.

 

Oh days of joy when they are all here with her. She hopes that the day when they leave is far away.

 

When the children are gone and she is alone, her soul’s colour returns to the usual dull grey. Out there she sees a landscape in black and white, not better than her soul in the winter morning’s light.

 

Hidden in one obscure forgotten corner stands her walker, her imaginary black stallion. Her aid on future short walks in vernal weather. During her old age her last and only dear companion.

 

So fairytales tend to live on when all else is gone.

 

One enchanted day she wakes to the sun’s ray. High up, in the budding holy rowan tree, seven joyful robins start singing the grey away.

 

And she smiles and rises and dresses very carefully, and goes to the corner and saddles her black friend. Off they go for a ride in the mild air of spring. To be a fair young maiden again is no impossible thing.



 © Catharina Kangas