They meet in the first week of a new year, with hope in their hearts and the promise of good fortunes on the horizon; she with hair as red as the fire within her passionate soul, he with a mane as mottled and unkempt as the previous anarchy of his own days. They walk by the waters of the Tay, each complimenting the ambition of the other, remarking upon the wild winds of life that have been responsible for the paths they find themselves stumbling along with as much determination as they could savour from their days of youth, when the world was much larger but every bit as mysterious as it remains now.
They pause at a secluded and serene spot, where they gaze at the silver water trickling eastward on its journey to the North Sea, catching the sleepy light of a low winter sun as it goes. They exchange notes and read them aloud to each other, gifts excitedly scrawled after the discovery of a shared passion for writing. His gift to her, a doltish anecdote that makes her smile. Her gift to him, four simple lines of poetry that grow in meaning with each measured reading.
He walks too fast. She pulls his arm with playful gaiety. Their arms remain linked as they follow the river. He watches the water pass, imagines it waking atop Ben Lui before the last light of the moon has faded, emerging from dusty clouds that envelop the mountain before sailing down to the earth and beginning its great journey to the sea. When the water reaches the end of the river, it will be thrown out into a vast new world with endless paths and limitless possibilities.
She asks him if he thinks the water dreams. Of where it’s been and where it might be going. If it’s afraid of storms or hopeful for sunshine. Such things are only natural.
They talk of their own dreams and nightmares. Of past failures and future yearnings. His path is focused on the young soul he has been guiding through her own journey in life. She would like a soul or two of her own to shape.
That’s when the noise of the water quietens. Almost disappears. The sun hides half a heavy eye behind the single gloomy snow cloud in an otherwise clear sky.
Her heart and mind are clear. They both know what they want.
His heart and mind are just as clear. But twice as sad.
Her dreams are full of children.
His dreams have space for only one.
They embrace.
She leaves with a heart that’s not wounded, but fraught with gentle sorrow. He leaves with tender regret and a single folded page with four lines of poetry so beautifully personal he will cherish it.
By the end of the day, the water will reach the open sea. On its way, it will breathe new life into the budding world around it. Then it will find new paths unexplored.