Tag Archives: sunlight
Golden tresses wave in the pale sunlight. Fire colours flicker – red, yellow, orange. Leaves slowly burning, their tiny flames fanned by the bitter winter wind.
Autumn colours burst like fireworks against the pale blue sky. Winter sunlight casts its watery glow across her frozen landscape. She bows out with a spectacular show.
It shines through skeletal leaves. Tinged pink and orange, they glow like Christmas lights. An early morning light show penetrates the frost.
A pale imitation of its summer self, it falls on trees and grass in faded rays. Its brightness is subdued, a watery yellow which gives only soft warmth. Yet flowers glow beneath its gentle touch, a last vestige of the … Continue reading
It slides into a shaft of sunlight and stops dead. Its plastic bodywork glows bright orange in the light, headlights glinting. A child’s hand appears and its moment in the sun is over.
Sunlight gently caresses her delicate flowers. Already a dazzling lemon yellow, they glow like blooms reborn. Her glory will be short lived, but today she outshines the light she touches.
At first, they look like flies, chasing each other around in the early morning sun. Then I realise they’re falling, not flying. Tiny snowflakes, lost in a place where they cannot settle, melting away as fast as they appear.
Sunlight filters through bright curtains on a sunny morning. The soft light brings back hot summer memories and makes me yearn for those lazy weekends, basking in the cool of the curtained bedroom before facing the heat of the day.
The creamy-milk winter sunlight pushes through the morning mist. It floods a group of shadow-puppet trees on the horizon with a gentle torchlight, making them glow.
Filtering through the leaded lights, it catches the smoke from the log fire, splitting gracefully into beams which seem almost solid. One of its fingers touches a glass of amber beer, lighting it up like a golden beacon.