'It's funny how the idea for a short story arrives! I was caught in a traffic jam on a early Friday afternoon and found myself watching through my mirror a couple (the hero and heroine) in the car behind'.

'It looked like a lunch time office date that had gone a bit wrong. He was a lot older and was much keener on the idea of romance than she'.

'From this observed mini drama came thoughts of ghostly love and mystery and'Forever Flying Free'- although, in retrospect, it's hard to connect the two'.

'The causation that leads to creative writing and things of the imagination is a strange and intriguing process which I don't pretend to understand'.

   There comes a moment in every day when I know I can fly.Then, effortlessly, I am away, light as thistledown, on the early evening breeze. Soaring in an instant over rolling fields, I plunge into dark and mysterious valleys then swoop up to dally in the evening shadows beneath my favorite hilltop trees.

    One particular place draws me back again and again. There is a feeling of excitement within me as I sweep towards it along the winding road, between the high primrose lined hedges. It has a rambling old farmhouse with water garden lilies, giant rhubarb leaf plants and old stone walls. As I speed up the hill, tall trees fold over me and embrace me in huge welcoming arches.

    In the undergrowth all around, there is the earthy scent of brown leaves making a soft bed for newly sown seeds and a sparkling brook twists and turns down the hill through slim avenues of hazel trees and bramble bushes.

    Skimming along, I soon emerge out of the dense tree shade. Rutted paths, stiles and hedgerows sweep by until the short pony cropped moorland grass is under me and I can again feel the spirals and eddies of air pushing me upwards and outwards into the welcoming open countryside.

    Once I resisted this flow and stopped for a while by an old wooden bench with the inscription "In Memory of Hilda and Jack".

    They too must have loved this place, enjoyed the peace of its' greens and browns, its carpet floor scattered with red and yellow wild flowers.

    I stayed awhile and as time passed, I became aware of two beady eyes, partly hidden in the bushes. It was a mother fox looking after her cubs. I watched as they ventured out into the evening sun, rolling over and over in the dark earth and tall grass. Snapping and snarling, they twisted and turned in brotherly competition. Then something startled them and they ran for cover.

    I turned and saw a car come slowly over the grass and park by the old oak tree. Its  gleaming redness harsh and stark. The occupants were deep in conversation. Smiles flew from face to face. Heads tilted towards each other. They didn't see the countryside around them. With eyes locked increasingly into each other's, they seemed drawn together by an invisible force. Yet unfamiliarity also pushed them apart. There was an invisible chord of tension between them.

    Those first moments together were an adventure; neither seemed to know how much the other wanted. But little by little, gesture by gesture, with small shifts of position - a knee pointed, a hand touching an elbow lightly then finally resting on a shoulder - they drew closer, always talking, smiling, laughing.

    Each eventually recognized the signs and was reassured, their desire for personal space passed and soon words were not needed as they became locked into each others arms and lips.

    I watched them and felt their desire. But their happiness unsettled me and the warm glow which flying always brought me diminished and soon became a pale shadow against the bright diamond of their passion. Eventually, I turned sadly away, feeling the green thorn's prick of envy. 

    Much later, as I rested on a nearby grassy mound, the car pulled away, leaving the glade to slumber. Drained of the energy to fly on and dejected, I could only return home.

    For a time I did not go back to that place - my jealousy was strong. I remembered too well his round face wreathed in smiles, his sparse hair carefully slicked over to hide his baldness, his suit ever more rumpled with their desire.

    But when I did go back, it was to learn more about them, to watch and share their journey of discovery and not for the exhilarating twists, turns and tumbles of flight.

    Perhaps she was a work colleague. Like him, she was well past that first flush of youth. Her moon-shaped face had a tendency to a double chin as she pressed her head happily into his shoulder, toying all the time with his fingers and chattering on.

    Her dresses were never extravagant; simple cotton prints, sober wear that would suit any office although always loose enough to be comfortable for his caresses.

    Their happiness visibly grew. It radiated from the car in waves. It mingled with the undergrowth and brightened that corner of the woods. The birds sang harder when that couple were there and the wild flowers were brighter.

    Occasionally, they would leave the car and walk a little. They found the tiny brook nearby and leaned over the old stone bridge holding hands as they watched the small brown trout swimming in the clear water below.

    Sometimes they would lie on the grass together looking up at the soft clouds drifting above, enjoying the sunlight as it fell on their faces and the warmth of each other's presence.

    And always, before they drove away, they would say their good-byes. Lingering farewells with kisses and long drawn out hugs as if they couldn't chance them in the presence of others.

    Then one day it was over.

    She arrived alone in an old Grey family car, opened the door and walked a little, deep in thought. I saw a tear trickle down her cheek and fall to the ground. Then she continued. Walking and staring - quietly remembering.

    Again and again she came, seemingly to relive her memories. Sometimes she sat on the bench and stared into space. Sometimes she would sit on the grass, draw her knees to her chin and bury her face in her arms. At these moments the glade seemed dark and full of pain. The birds fell silent and the flowers dimmed.

    Yet, in her sadness, her beauty grew. The plumpness of middle age disappeared day by day. Always attractive in a matronly way, now she looked younger and more desirable. Still she came and still I returned to watch her, sharing her grief and her pain.

    But as she changed, so did I.