Rainbow Dreamers (on the Emerald Isle) by  Iris H.E. Brandstatter   It is the season of long lunch breaks, and lazy walks on the sea front. The season when people in business suits – sandwich in one hand, shoes in the other – dig pale toes into the moist sand. It's summer on the island: a short, windswept, cool-breezed, gay-coloured, fast-clouded summer. Sure, there is less sunshine than other places - less heat too, but more rainbows than anywhere else. Mild nights lure lovers out, giggles and kisses thrown into the moonlit air like flower petals to a bride. This jewel in the ocean loves to swim in sentimental outbursts of showers: mild and heavy on one half of the sky, while the other half is occupied, with the gleaming sun chasing an occasional silver-grey-pink cloud across the horizon. Neatly separated sky, like kids in church: girls on the left, boys on the right. A perfect catholic sky, with a rainbow bridge between. And then there are the islanders: bare-footed, ties loose, lunch in one hand, shoes in the other, stopping on their lazy walk. Heads up high, lunch-hand blocking off the light: staring like curious kids, with slightly-opened lips, they observe a perfectly rainbow, in a neatly-separated, catholic sky. Seconds pass and all the religion and neatness disappears, chased by a horde of dark, rain-grey, thundery cloud-monsters. Sweet Mary and Joseph! The picture compares with a bizarre movie. First frame: normal speed; people, pale toes, walking. Second frame: slow motion; pale-toed people lift lunch-hand to block the sun. Third frame: fast forward; pale-toed people, heavy raindrops, back to their cars. Seconds later the beach is empty, the sand has changed colour like a chameleon, to blend-in with the sky: dark, metallic grey. Gone are the toe-tracks: erased by a few heavy rain-drops, and the short existence of long lunch memories. The beach – now deserted – soaks up the water like a sponge, leaving quicksilver ponds; for clouds to celebrate their vanity. Wind ruffles the surface of the incoming tide to a thousand pleats; each one quickly outrunning the other, quicksilver pleas for vain cloud-monsters. Only tiny mirrors are left to catch their reflection: perfectly, and so they are off; on broad storm shoulders, anger rimmed, they drift, leaving only their tears behind. Quicksilver tears fall in quicksilver mirrors, on the chameleon beach. A minute later, the sun is out again: throwing a little rainbow, like a boomerang. Behind it are the angry clouds that one by one, fall off stormy shoulders; and behind them, the horizon. All is well on the isle! Sandwiches in their stomachs, shoes on pale, sandy toes now; business-suited islanders are back behind their desks, some with quicksilver tears in their hair, and some with rainbow dreams in their eyes!   Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author.

Iris H.E.Brandstatter e-mail: irisb2001@usa.net