Thursday 26 March 2015
It Begins Again
It begins again as she leans on the balustrade drink in hand listening to the music of bees in the bright orchard and watching the jonquils bow in suplication to the blustery wind. Barrow weeds the beds closest to the house and she admires his firm lean physique. Does he know she is watching? She cannot tell. There is nothing self conscious in his stance but then neither was there in her dream.
Her dream will not leave her. She had escaped into the woods to a gypsy Roulotte and laughter around a fire. She had watched in her dream as these tinkers,these travellers, danced around the flickering fire to the viola and the octagonal flower-painted accordion. Sparks flew to the sky like fireflies and took root with the desires of their hearts in the freedom of the dance. She looked down at her butchered feet and wondered when would it be her time to dance.
The dream skips a beat to her subconscious desires and she is there with Barrow. They have abandoned their clothes and dance the dance of love, bodies tangled as one, a mounting heat kindling a fire deep within her. A dappled moonlight stallion appears and kneels before them and Barrow lifts her to ride with him, away to the Fairy Dell in the woods. She holds tight around his waist reaching one hand down to search the secret heart of his curlicue fronds. The moon smiles down knowingly on the water as they pass to make love in her silvery light with the ghosts of lovers past looking on. They lay down together in the fairy ring on a bed bolstered with moss making their own sweet music of sighs as he played with her secret nugget of heaven. The butterfly emerges from its cocoon and pulses at her centre engorging its wings with bright colour in bittersweet release and Titania looks on with Oberon, mirroring their pleasure. Alas she will have to wake from the dream but she can always return.
If I were you...
If I were you I would pay no heed to the limitations of another's vision for you. Widen your horizons, heighten your expectations, dream all that you can dream and then dream some more: the land of stars is infinite. Sing your stories into song. Go softly and be kind to yourself as well as others. Give freely into the space of life and know you are held safe in Gods embrace, no dead canaries here. Never mind the battered old shoes you wear, you can always wear the scarlet lipstick smile and then no one will be looking at your feet.
Your Mother gave you some advice to see you through: keep your hand on your ha'penny; a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but best of all; have the courage to let go, and that is what you can do. Strike out now and have no fear of the turban of giggling whiskers, this traveller of roads holds you no malice, he treads his own path. Fresh air not alcohol will improve your perspective. Enjoy the small pleasures of life: the call of birds, the newness of the moon, lights reflection on water, the sweetness of honey, the warmth of cloves, the tingle of spices laced with chilli, the flutter of eye lashes on crisp linen as you taste your lovers mouth. These are pleasures without measure to be held safe in your soul.
The Composer
The Composer
Lars lit the lantern at his desk and stared once more, squinting at the necklace of notes strung along the stave. Why could he not be at peace with this final stanza of the composition? It was just not right. He could the thud of the children,s feet upstairs and their bickering voices deciding the true mother in his wife into fractions. There were too many demands on her to be able to answer them all so she chose to answer none. He looked through to the parlour and saw the lamp-lighter making his circles of gold spring to life on the pavement through the bay window. There were cushions on the floor, a china doll, a moth-eaten bear, a lone marble. The window bay was a place for the innocents and they made it their own. It is the hour to pray, he thought, and I am still not finished. Mine is a fevered life.
His wife came down and sat by the fire "your gown has a lost button, my love," she said
"And your eyes are as sharp as they were when we married, dear one, if you can see that from over there. Come here and kiss me and we shall have a glass together." She smiled at him,"mine own dear hear" writ large in her sparkling eyes.
"Your children are all a-bed my love, it's the proper hour. Will you sing to them a lullaby?" She said, coming to his arms to be gifted a chaste but tender kiss on her cheek.
"I will go up, and then we shall have our night cap, my busy little bees do not like alcohol kisses as much as there Mama."
His tread is softly on the stair but none the less five pairs of eyes, saucer wide and full of anticipation look from their bed as he enters the room.
"Papa," they squeal with excitement.
"What will you have this night mine own dear hearts, a story? A lullaby?"
"Sing for us Papa," they reply in harmony and he begins a song of tempting beauty beyond reach, a necklace of notes too pure for this world. He sings softly and his deep baritone voice caresses the night air in honeyed velvet tones as rich as melted chocolate. The children , one by one sink into peace and calm, and, contented drift into slumber. What secrets do they see in their dreams he wonders? Shifting sand dunes and camel trains of silks perhaps, or two papier mâché bees flying through the Venetian Carnival like the ones they had seen at the Opéra. What ever it was you could only see smiles on their faces, these dreams would remain a mystery.
He tenderly tucked their blankets about them against the chill and banked the fire in the grate. He retreats and retraces his steps to find his wife sitting in the parlour by the fire. Mine is a blessed existence here. The hours shrink and the years pass too quickly but still I am content. The music lies on the lid of the clavichord calling him to answer his responsibilities.
"Off to work we go." But he finds he cannot settle to the music and sits in his leather chair, his mind drifts like the tide, in and out of consciousness until he finally lands in restless dreams reeling among the stars as the sea writes its name in Arabic.
"What day is it?" he asks of the Sea.
"Tuesday. It is always Tuesday. Time does not pass for us, only water flows.
Lars lit the lantern at his desk and stared once more, squinting at the necklace of notes strung along the stave. Why could he not be at peace with this final stanza of the composition? It was just not right. He could the thud of the children,s feet upstairs and their bickering voices deciding the true mother in his wife into fractions. There were too many demands on her to be able to answer them all so she chose to answer none. He looked through to the parlour and saw the lamp-lighter making his circles of gold spring to life on the pavement through the bay window. There were cushions on the floor, a china doll, a moth-eaten bear, a lone marble. The window bay was a place for the innocents and they made it their own. It is the hour to pray, he thought, and I am still not finished. Mine is a fevered life.
His wife came down and sat by the fire "your gown has a lost button, my love," she said
"And your eyes are as sharp as they were when we married, dear one, if you can see that from over there. Come here and kiss me and we shall have a glass together." She smiled at him,"mine own dear hear" writ large in her sparkling eyes.
"Your children are all a-bed my love, it's the proper hour. Will you sing to them a lullaby?" She said, coming to his arms to be gifted a chaste but tender kiss on her cheek.
"I will go up, and then we shall have our night cap, my busy little bees do not like alcohol kisses as much as there Mama."
His tread is softly on the stair but none the less five pairs of eyes, saucer wide and full of anticipation look from their bed as he enters the room.
"Papa," they squeal with excitement.
"What will you have this night mine own dear hearts, a story? A lullaby?"
"Sing for us Papa," they reply in harmony and he begins a song of tempting beauty beyond reach, a necklace of notes too pure for this world. He sings softly and his deep baritone voice caresses the night air in honeyed velvet tones as rich as melted chocolate. The children , one by one sink into peace and calm, and, contented drift into slumber. What secrets do they see in their dreams he wonders? Shifting sand dunes and camel trains of silks perhaps, or two papier mâché bees flying through the Venetian Carnival like the ones they had seen at the Opéra. What ever it was you could only see smiles on their faces, these dreams would remain a mystery.
He tenderly tucked their blankets about them against the chill and banked the fire in the grate. He retreats and retraces his steps to find his wife sitting in the parlour by the fire. Mine is a blessed existence here. The hours shrink and the years pass too quickly but still I am content. The music lies on the lid of the clavichord calling him to answer his responsibilities.
"Off to work we go." But he finds he cannot settle to the music and sits in his leather chair, his mind drifts like the tide, in and out of consciousness until he finally lands in restless dreams reeling among the stars as the sea writes its name in Arabic.
"What day is it?" he asks of the Sea.
"Tuesday. It is always Tuesday. Time does not pass for us, only water flows.
Tuesday 24 March 2015
Branded
There was no escape, a way in but not out. Even the water sparkling with diamonds must evaporate and begin again. She must become a different brand of woman, innocence would only take her so far. She worried that she would not be up to the task, that she would be a poor housekeeper with maggots stealing the food from their mouths. Would she manage to sing honeyed sweetness into her King's ear? Could she become his Queen in the arts of love, a vessel for his bodies joy?
She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening the the sounds exposed from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and steeled surface. She passed through the lozenge of light that walked down the landing through the day as the arced through the vaulted oculus and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now.
Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the glass finger. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.
She ran back to the coolness of the house and tiptoed up the staircase listening the the sounds exposed from the over-stretched staff, the florists and her anxious mother. There were no honeyed words here only hard edges and steeled surface. She passed through the lozenge of light that walked down the landing through the day as the arced through the vaulted oculus and reached her room, still her private sanctuary, for now.
Emily sat at her dressing table reaching for the perfumed water in the broken urn, the scent of roses and cloves to be stroked at her neck with the glass finger. How cross she had been when Johnny had come crashing into her room hurling his toy train in frustration and smashed the lid. So many years ago. She could not bear to think of his fallen body interred alone in some foreign land. She inhaled deeply, peace be with you, and emerged to the sunlit balcony prepared to spread her wings. Love would be like cherries, bitter sweet and better fermented.
A Day to Celebrate
It was the day of the engagement. Life would never be the same again her mother said.
"Never more will you be able to put your own needs first."
Emily wondered whether she ever had? She had escaped for one last time, before the guests arrived, to the gardn of her family home to find a quiet space of reflection amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for the big bash. The light summer rain had left crystal drops of water on the flowers and she watched their unhurried course trickling down into each flowers sweetness. The simplicity of it brought tears to her eyes and she gently patted her silk glove to her carefully made up cheek. She was painted, disguised for the benefit of the guests, a society queen unseen in her natural beauty.
The bees buzzed hungrily from flower to flower collecting liquid gold pollen souped by the rain to take back to the hive, the great provider. Was that what Carmichael would be? She was not sure that he might not turn out to be a bully. But he was a catch and the arrangement had been made carefully by her father to the satisfaction of both families. All would be well. Carmichael's slightly baffled look, his sun bleached honey hair and muscular physique certainly appealed to her, but he could be a little brash and boorish in the company of other men and she hoped he would be more genteel in his manner towards her. She worried that her beauty, painted as it had always been would still hold his roving eye once the paint started to crack. Only time would tell and she must face this boldest day of her life come what may. Would it be so terrible to be the trophy wife of another of the boys who lived it up at his Club?
For one fleeting moment she wished she could run from this circus, her obligation to her family and trip the light fantastic in the garden with the bees and disperse among the wilderness like a dandelion tuft singing 'Hey ho, into the botanical we go!' But the pull of expectations and corset silks grounded her. There was no escape.
"Never more will you be able to put your own needs first."
Emily wondered whether she ever had? She had escaped for one last time, before the guests arrived, to the gardn of her family home to find a quiet space of reflection amid the hustle and bustle of preparations for the big bash. The light summer rain had left crystal drops of water on the flowers and she watched their unhurried course trickling down into each flowers sweetness. The simplicity of it brought tears to her eyes and she gently patted her silk glove to her carefully made up cheek. She was painted, disguised for the benefit of the guests, a society queen unseen in her natural beauty.
The bees buzzed hungrily from flower to flower collecting liquid gold pollen souped by the rain to take back to the hive, the great provider. Was that what Carmichael would be? She was not sure that he might not turn out to be a bully. But he was a catch and the arrangement had been made carefully by her father to the satisfaction of both families. All would be well. Carmichael's slightly baffled look, his sun bleached honey hair and muscular physique certainly appealed to her, but he could be a little brash and boorish in the company of other men and she hoped he would be more genteel in his manner towards her. She worried that her beauty, painted as it had always been would still hold his roving eye once the paint started to crack. Only time would tell and she must face this boldest day of her life come what may. Would it be so terrible to be the trophy wife of another of the boys who lived it up at his Club?
For one fleeting moment she wished she could run from this circus, her obligation to her family and trip the light fantastic in the garden with the bees and disperse among the wilderness like a dandelion tuft singing 'Hey ho, into the botanical we go!' But the pull of expectations and corset silks grounded her. There was no escape.
Escape
And the doves called 'Bon-jour, Bon-jour' in the early morning mist as Emily ran barefoot from her boudoir in her broderie-anglais shift. The illicit pleasure of escaping the rest of the household while they snored and burped unseen, the joy of this secret time for herself was immense, rising like champagne bubbles from the pit of her belly. She could escape into the Botanical Gardens cared for her by her father and revel in their beauty without petticoats and parasols, backlit as they were by the rising light and warmth of the sun.
The complex was one of enormity but she knew always where she would go. The Rose bower would be thick with scent trapped by the heavier cool night air and she could drink it in. She glanced back at the White House with its jade roof and white balustraded verandah feeling the bond as strong as blood with the familial vessel that held safe all those dear to her. " God, let Father keep this post" she prayed fervently.
She left the crumbling biscuit of the path and ran barefoot in the cool fragrant grass of early Summer enjoying the delicious waft of mint on the breeze. Oh Frabjous day, calu callay! She passed the broad bed of succulents perching between boulders, the flowers bejewelled with sap leaking from their bulbous bottoms. She had seen Simeon bludgeon one with a machete last week in an attempt to control its inexorable growth, but it was a bold Agave and it would soon bring forth new buds.
As she entered the bower she inhaled deeply. What better beginning to her birthday? Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. She sank her nose into the secret heart of the flower and inhaled notes of tea-rose, lemon, peach,sherbet freshness. Father would be cross if she was not back for breakfast but she made her leisurely circuit of the pond dancing and skipping her arms floating in a dance all of their own, her skin swimming in scent.
The time came all too soon when she dare not stay longer and she belligerently plucked a boulder from the flower bed and threw it into the blue tiled pond. 'Bellum' it said with a drink of satisfaction. This was not a day to hide in the dark cupboards of her mind. This was a day to be at one with the wisdom of the ancients. She could behave though, now she had had her moment of peace. When she was good she was very good...
The complex was one of enormity but she knew always where she would go. The Rose bower would be thick with scent trapped by the heavier cool night air and she could drink it in. She glanced back at the White House with its jade roof and white balustraded verandah feeling the bond as strong as blood with the familial vessel that held safe all those dear to her. " God, let Father keep this post" she prayed fervently.
She left the crumbling biscuit of the path and ran barefoot in the cool fragrant grass of early Summer enjoying the delicious waft of mint on the breeze. Oh Frabjous day, calu callay! She passed the broad bed of succulents perching between boulders, the flowers bejewelled with sap leaking from their bulbous bottoms. She had seen Simeon bludgeon one with a machete last week in an attempt to control its inexorable growth, but it was a bold Agave and it would soon bring forth new buds.
As she entered the bower she inhaled deeply. What better beginning to her birthday? Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. She sank her nose into the secret heart of the flower and inhaled notes of tea-rose, lemon, peach,sherbet freshness. Father would be cross if she was not back for breakfast but she made her leisurely circuit of the pond dancing and skipping her arms floating in a dance all of their own, her skin swimming in scent.
The time came all too soon when she dare not stay longer and she belligerently plucked a boulder from the flower bed and threw it into the blue tiled pond. 'Bellum' it said with a drink of satisfaction. This was not a day to hide in the dark cupboards of her mind. This was a day to be at one with the wisdom of the ancients. She could behave though, now she had had her moment of peace. When she was good she was very good...
Exploring
Exploring
Gabriel looked at his Uncles pocket watch marked with letters rather than numbers and pushed it back, snug in his pocket. He liked to look at the moon glow of the mother of pearl face in the sunlight. There was a door in the face that showed the day and he wondered what other secrets might their be, what lies beyond the door. He dreamed in cogs and spirals, in jewels and springs and constant changing circles.
He removed his school boy trousers, torn at the knees and layed them on the lichen dappled stone by the loch waving at his little brother wading in his short trousers a little way off. He could see the ripple of wind on the water which was otherwise still. This was a place for the innocents and they had more joy from here than anywhere or anything else on the Isle. It was hard to believe the loch could be so glassy, reflecting a perfect inverse image of cloudy skies and bog myrtle banked hills when the salt sprayed up in silver sparks on to the rocks of the bay just half a mile away. Frank threw a pebble out into the loch and watched as circles almost impossible to count radiated outwards into the clouds reflection.
" I'm going to the cave," he shouted,"coming?" His brother did not respond, engrossed in his own game involving a water beetle acting as a water beetle's bouncer. Frank wrote a note 'follow the snails' thinking he would not make it easy but joyful for Fergus to follow him. He would leave a trail of snail shells behind him for his brother to follow should he wish. There was no penchant for greed or malice in these boys. Everything they owned they shared, everything they did, they did together. They were like twins, everybody said so, except they were a year apart.
Frank left Fergus to his beetle taunting and headed off to find the glow worms in the cave. It's easy to get there, or so he'd been told but this was a lie for you have to enter your body into the deep pool and pass beneath the thunder of the waterfall. You would dive in if you were brave, get it over with, one short sharp shock. The water was too cold for that today and Frank stepped gingerly on the crisp edges of ice not wanting to be plunged into the depths. Circling the pool without entering the water is almost impossible but it is worth the effort to get to the glow worms and watch as they glimmer in the dark and tease you with a promised time of secrets.
Gabriel looked at his Uncles pocket watch marked with letters rather than numbers and pushed it back, snug in his pocket. He liked to look at the moon glow of the mother of pearl face in the sunlight. There was a door in the face that showed the day and he wondered what other secrets might their be, what lies beyond the door. He dreamed in cogs and spirals, in jewels and springs and constant changing circles.
He removed his school boy trousers, torn at the knees and layed them on the lichen dappled stone by the loch waving at his little brother wading in his short trousers a little way off. He could see the ripple of wind on the water which was otherwise still. This was a place for the innocents and they had more joy from here than anywhere or anything else on the Isle. It was hard to believe the loch could be so glassy, reflecting a perfect inverse image of cloudy skies and bog myrtle banked hills when the salt sprayed up in silver sparks on to the rocks of the bay just half a mile away. Frank threw a pebble out into the loch and watched as circles almost impossible to count radiated outwards into the clouds reflection.
" I'm going to the cave," he shouted,"coming?" His brother did not respond, engrossed in his own game involving a water beetle acting as a water beetle's bouncer. Frank wrote a note 'follow the snails' thinking he would not make it easy but joyful for Fergus to follow him. He would leave a trail of snail shells behind him for his brother to follow should he wish. There was no penchant for greed or malice in these boys. Everything they owned they shared, everything they did, they did together. They were like twins, everybody said so, except they were a year apart.
Frank left Fergus to his beetle taunting and headed off to find the glow worms in the cave. It's easy to get there, or so he'd been told but this was a lie for you have to enter your body into the deep pool and pass beneath the thunder of the waterfall. You would dive in if you were brave, get it over with, one short sharp shock. The water was too cold for that today and Frank stepped gingerly on the crisp edges of ice not wanting to be plunged into the depths. Circling the pool without entering the water is almost impossible but it is worth the effort to get to the glow worms and watch as they glimmer in the dark and tease you with a promised time of secrets.
Monday 23 March 2015
The Kings Curse
A violet evening sky rich with stars hangs like pinpricked silk across the heavens showing the relief of froth and foam cresting on gentle waves. They sing their constant lullaby on the water's surface while phosphorescence, the secret mermaid light of blue and green, bubbles in curtains from below, an aurora of the deep.
The bubbles of colour dress the leviathans travelling silently, unseen, in their finest sequinned frocks ready for the dance below the sea. Smaller fish fan their pectoral fins in puffs of pride showing their ribboned green and blue, the colours of an oil slick and as deadly to the more demure females of the species who can do nothing but shine their shimmering mirror scales.
The crowd assemble, coming through the four winds to conquer the extreme power of the sea in a need to dance, to celebrate, to sing their song under the sea. One by one they slip their silver coin to the mermaid with the dragons tail, progeny of an unholy union of myth and magic, who guards the gateway. (This will be the one day they all pass but only if her dragon heart desires are sated with silver.) She examines the coin for quality and nods her permission for them to enter Atlantis.
The grand ballroom, a cathedral of fan and fire coral lit by the swaying forms of myriad rainbow anemones offering a mirage as unexpected as that of melting fresh water layered on top of salt, making the leap or seal and the narwhal instantly at home. They cannot stay long below the waves and are eager for the festivities to begin.
The King appears, flanked by a royal guard of Mermen and Manta Rays, the book of power and a thousand secrets tucked safely under his arm. It holds the power to the Kingdom and can never be lost or Atlantis will fall. A turtle makes his slow ponderous flight through the water towards the King and slips from his shell a silver token, a gift, a reminder, from the Fairy Princess on the Lone Isle to the North. His bewitched daughter resides with her still, beyond the castle keep. It is his great sadness. She lost her heart to a Landman and let the scales filter from her tale into the turquoise seas. Her punishment, to be banished from Atlantis, never more to fit in one world or another and so she lamented day and night all that was lost to her. She was kept beyond the great stone walls in a shallow pool so she could breathe the air and yet keep her skin from drying to parchment in the sun and she wrote daily to her Father, the King.
"Dearest Father and Sovereign King,
Why have you stolen my life? Why did you let my love fall through the endless fathoms to the floor of the trench to be supped on by the ancient terrors, six-gills and hag fish in the darkness. Am I not more precious to you than all the world. You know the Fairy Princess has the power to return me to your care if only you will give her The Book of a Thousand Secrets. You have my love, have I not yours?"
She had not forgiven him then, nor forgotten her love. And that was his curse.
Ever the servant to his people the King nods to the treasurer and the turtle is passed a silken coin filled mermaid's purse for his act of kindness, his tender delivery of heartbreak.
The King exits from his private grief, a cloud passing over his eyes and puts on his public face. He claps his hands and the Clam Calypso strikes up. The freedom of dancing naked under the sky and sea begins. Colours flash and whirl as the fish dance in crazed oblivion like bumper cars under bright anemone lights in a lunacy and excitement of utter abandon.
The way stone of knowledge hangs heavy about the Kings neck and holds him steady while his court whirl around him like ghosts of lovers, blurred at their edges.
"What is their secret," wondered the King, "how can they let go of the worries that bring me to my knees." He looked through the magical kaleidoscope portal to the sky and kingdoms of Above searching for the Curlew to hear their comforting song, "Hear us when we cry to thee of those in peril in the sea." They did not have his worries, but then they were supplicants to the wind's caprice. Nobody is truly free.
The bubbles of colour dress the leviathans travelling silently, unseen, in their finest sequinned frocks ready for the dance below the sea. Smaller fish fan their pectoral fins in puffs of pride showing their ribboned green and blue, the colours of an oil slick and as deadly to the more demure females of the species who can do nothing but shine their shimmering mirror scales.
The crowd assemble, coming through the four winds to conquer the extreme power of the sea in a need to dance, to celebrate, to sing their song under the sea. One by one they slip their silver coin to the mermaid with the dragons tail, progeny of an unholy union of myth and magic, who guards the gateway. (This will be the one day they all pass but only if her dragon heart desires are sated with silver.) She examines the coin for quality and nods her permission for them to enter Atlantis.
The grand ballroom, a cathedral of fan and fire coral lit by the swaying forms of myriad rainbow anemones offering a mirage as unexpected as that of melting fresh water layered on top of salt, making the leap or seal and the narwhal instantly at home. They cannot stay long below the waves and are eager for the festivities to begin.
The King appears, flanked by a royal guard of Mermen and Manta Rays, the book of power and a thousand secrets tucked safely under his arm. It holds the power to the Kingdom and can never be lost or Atlantis will fall. A turtle makes his slow ponderous flight through the water towards the King and slips from his shell a silver token, a gift, a reminder, from the Fairy Princess on the Lone Isle to the North. His bewitched daughter resides with her still, beyond the castle keep. It is his great sadness. She lost her heart to a Landman and let the scales filter from her tale into the turquoise seas. Her punishment, to be banished from Atlantis, never more to fit in one world or another and so she lamented day and night all that was lost to her. She was kept beyond the great stone walls in a shallow pool so she could breathe the air and yet keep her skin from drying to parchment in the sun and she wrote daily to her Father, the King.
"Dearest Father and Sovereign King,
Why have you stolen my life? Why did you let my love fall through the endless fathoms to the floor of the trench to be supped on by the ancient terrors, six-gills and hag fish in the darkness. Am I not more precious to you than all the world. You know the Fairy Princess has the power to return me to your care if only you will give her The Book of a Thousand Secrets. You have my love, have I not yours?"
She had not forgiven him then, nor forgotten her love. And that was his curse.
Ever the servant to his people the King nods to the treasurer and the turtle is passed a silken coin filled mermaid's purse for his act of kindness, his tender delivery of heartbreak.
The King exits from his private grief, a cloud passing over his eyes and puts on his public face. He claps his hands and the Clam Calypso strikes up. The freedom of dancing naked under the sky and sea begins. Colours flash and whirl as the fish dance in crazed oblivion like bumper cars under bright anemone lights in a lunacy and excitement of utter abandon.
The way stone of knowledge hangs heavy about the Kings neck and holds him steady while his court whirl around him like ghosts of lovers, blurred at their edges.
"What is their secret," wondered the King, "how can they let go of the worries that bring me to my knees." He looked through the magical kaleidoscope portal to the sky and kingdoms of Above searching for the Curlew to hear their comforting song, "Hear us when we cry to thee of those in peril in the sea." They did not have his worries, but then they were supplicants to the wind's caprice. Nobody is truly free.
Saturday 21 March 2015
I Believe in Fairies
I stand at the entrance to the fairy realm. It is an eye, looking out from behind the moss on the wall by the well. There is magical writing there but I cannot understand it. Is it a spell, a charm, a prayer? Maybe I should have paid more attention in school but as I look at it I cannot recognise any of the shapes and feel sure it must be a whole new language. The lettering is carved out and filled in in a different material, something blond. Wood, sand? I'm not sure but it reminds me of the marquetry box that grandfather keeps his stamps in.
I wipe the grime from my knees and wonder if I dare make like a man and face my innocence. Can it really be true? Mike told me it was all just fanciful and that I should grow up so I ran away. I ran to the tiddler pond as fast as I could and cried where no one can see me. But I believe in fairies even if Mikey doesn't and if I can't be happy in this world I want to be in theirs.
No.
Not really.
I would be sad not to have Grandpa tell me stories or not to run with Patch in the woods in Summer. But I would like to visit their world. Just once. I need strength to face the wolves of my fear, to feel new earth beneath my feet and dance, run, sing to the sky tossing caution to the wind.
As I stand and look, the eye begins to morph before my eyes into a portal and a voice sings out
"Enter my arms my love, this is the only fracture in my defences. You must decide quickly whether you truly believe. It is the only way."
There was no doubt in my screaming heart. Mikey had to be lying. I knew I should not enter anywhere without exits but I could not bear to miss this opportunity. There was no knocker but as the corners of the eye squeezed inwards and the curves became arches I found myself drawn forward through the pupil in the violet heart of the eye.
Inside there was a parlour for the spider and the fly with a door through to further curiosities. A well dressed black beetle shone behind a silvered teapot, sitting on a tapestry pincushion. At the sight of me he looked up.
"Are you lost" he asked
"I'm not sure Sir," I said. It seemed sensible to be polite as I was in someone else's house although I had never talked to a beetle before.
"Why are you here?" He tapped constantly , impatiently with his front feet on the teapot so it was difficult to hear what he had said exactly.
"I believe in Fairies."
"Well why wouldn't you" he said in a rather irritated voice, "but why are you here?"
"I want to see the Fairies," I said, and then, rather more bravely, "I want to ask them if they can help me get tall."
"Well, that's better young man. They have heard your wish but to make it come true you must chose the right door. You are in control of your own destiny. To be a man you must know your path and have the courage to follow it, wherever it may lead, then no one will ever look down on you again."
I looked around the small dark parlour and saw that there were several doors to chose from set into the mud crust walls. One was from darkness to light, a door within a door a sunlit alley between offering your more possibilities. Another was old, solid, studded with no peephole or knocker. It looked sturdy and forbidding and I imagined the maze that must be hidden by such a door, a maze with a Minotaur heart. The third door was so fresh and new it was not yet mounted onto the wall. It was still being painted frantically. Just the right shade of blue to feel friendly. It lay open in the frame leading to wobbly ill fitting cobbles like the ones that lead home from the mill.
I chose the third door, under the sign of the fish and eyed into the bright space beyond, a new era. I tiptoed timidly through and fell with a light touch on to a sledge that instantly transported me down a rabbit hole depositing me in front of a foxed mirror which held a semblance of my reflection and a myriad of secrets.
The mirror had writing around it. Look into me and see what you wish to be true. It will be so. I backed away not wanting to look until I was ready. I needed to think about this carefully. I wondered if I could fuse more than one wish, there were so many things that I wanted, Mikey's bike for a start. I wanted Grandpas gimpy leg to be better too so that it didn't hurt him in the winter. But I was at the benign mercy of the Fairies' good will and I did not want them to hold a grudge against me for being greedy.
I made my choice and stepped up to the mirror wishing to be a man secure in his importance to the world and able to support the people he most loved. I would no longer be a lost soul fighting to be seen, an innocent abroad.
I opened my eyes and found myself standing by the wall next to the well. No portal was visible now. Looking down at my reflection in the well's cool green surface I see aman, fully grown wearing a top hat.
An Oasis
There is an Oasis amid the turbulance of life and noise, an island of sanctuary.
I am greeted with smiling kindness and led through a maze of narrow, winding, two-way staircases, seating alcoves, courtyards and galleries that defy the world and all its troubles to follow.
Every sense is gently caressed with subtle encouragements to find sanctuary. There is so much care, so much unassuming quiet attention to detail it is a soft lullaby with no discordant notes.
The scent of Lily and Rose sneak upon your conscience wafting on the breeze from the open courtyards mingling with the underlying incense of woodsmoke.
Doves call tenderly to one another from the courtyard roof joined by the finches bubbling song and the occasional dissonant caw of a seagull.
Voices can be heard in domestic communion as cooperative feasts as prepared to delight guests: mint tea, olives, a tagine brimful of spices and artisan breads.
Beautiful objects that delight and inspire are visible in alcoves, on walls and tables: a foxed mirror hiding a secret heart, a wooden birdcage with no chorister, coloured glass lanterns, ancient pot-bellied urns, a chess set with its Queen overthrown, pots full of unruly plants cascade their greens in a flow of living art.
Meeting places, greeting places, eating places and quiet spaces are set amid these treasures with all manner of comfortable cushioned benches, chairs, pouffes and day-beds. Fabric and tile throw colour into the mix standing out against white painted walls that are plastered, moulded uneven yet smooth.
I reach the central courtyard and find the tree of life. It stands true, sustaining and channelling energy to the heart of the oasis. And key to unlock the heart as it reaches to the blue of the sky calling you to look to the heavens.
Here I shall find sanctuary. Here I will find rest and nourishment for my weary soul. Here I will revive under the tender loving gaze of an olive-God.
I am greeted with smiling kindness and led through a maze of narrow, winding, two-way staircases, seating alcoves, courtyards and galleries that defy the world and all its troubles to follow.
Every sense is gently caressed with subtle encouragements to find sanctuary. There is so much care, so much unassuming quiet attention to detail it is a soft lullaby with no discordant notes.
The scent of Lily and Rose sneak upon your conscience wafting on the breeze from the open courtyards mingling with the underlying incense of woodsmoke.
Doves call tenderly to one another from the courtyard roof joined by the finches bubbling song and the occasional dissonant caw of a seagull.
Voices can be heard in domestic communion as cooperative feasts as prepared to delight guests: mint tea, olives, a tagine brimful of spices and artisan breads.
Beautiful objects that delight and inspire are visible in alcoves, on walls and tables: a foxed mirror hiding a secret heart, a wooden birdcage with no chorister, coloured glass lanterns, ancient pot-bellied urns, a chess set with its Queen overthrown, pots full of unruly plants cascade their greens in a flow of living art.
Meeting places, greeting places, eating places and quiet spaces are set amid these treasures with all manner of comfortable cushioned benches, chairs, pouffes and day-beds. Fabric and tile throw colour into the mix standing out against white painted walls that are plastered, moulded uneven yet smooth.
I reach the central courtyard and find the tree of life. It stands true, sustaining and channelling energy to the heart of the oasis. And key to unlock the heart as it reaches to the blue of the sky calling you to look to the heavens.
Here I shall find sanctuary. Here I will find rest and nourishment for my weary soul. Here I will revive under the tender loving gaze of an olive-God.
Friday 20 March 2015
Immersed in the Medina
The air is marinaded in the tang of spices, today's catch and sea spray. There is a dry dustiness to it that would tell age old stories if only we could be still and listen. In the Medina, surrounded by the sturdy embrace of her sandy walls is all of life. To the uninitiated the experience can be one of overwhelming confusion. Brothers compete for the attention of every passer-by, weighting their chances of a sale with a dash of charm and an offer of tea. Jellaba, food, shoes, lamps, fabrics cushions,cloth, leather, jewels, spices, all compete in a storm to assault the senses. Aromas and rainbow colours, spill onto the street from the tiny caverns, one Aladdin's cave after another, each vendor a diamond in the rough.
Cats seem to be as prolific as people and lie in the road unperturbed by passers by, a population within the population, a hierarchy of their own with the scars to prove it. They are lean and fit, if a little battle-scarred unlike the pampered pets of home with their sleek groomed coats and full bellies but the superior confidence and king-of-the-hill swagger is universal.
Accept the welcome gift of Royal Tea as you are treated (like royalty) to the ultimate home brew. It seems anything goes into this house special blend. Along with the tea leaves,from the myriad jars on display, rose, mint, bay, cinnamon juniper berries and even pepper are thrown into the pot to infuse their flavours in the hot water in an alchemy of brewing. The theatre does not stop their as sugar syrup is added to a glass and the brew is poured only to put the whole mixture back in the teapot. Beautiful etched or coloured glasses are brought out from the depths of the Aladdins cave and the tea, now steeped, is poured from a great height into the glasses, not losing an opportunity to blend further spices from the air. This is the ultimate gesture of hospitality and is undertaken with great generosity of spirit. A rare treasure. Unhurried conversation flows. To the cynical of mind it could appear to be a ruse, part of the sale, but this is not a business transaction, it is simply one of human kindness.
A sky full of seagulls wheel about on the unseen turbulence above, their mocking laughter shouted into the wind. It is time to find an oasis of calm.
Cats seem to be as prolific as people and lie in the road unperturbed by passers by, a population within the population, a hierarchy of their own with the scars to prove it. They are lean and fit, if a little battle-scarred unlike the pampered pets of home with their sleek groomed coats and full bellies but the superior confidence and king-of-the-hill swagger is universal.
Accept the welcome gift of Royal Tea as you are treated (like royalty) to the ultimate home brew. It seems anything goes into this house special blend. Along with the tea leaves,from the myriad jars on display, rose, mint, bay, cinnamon juniper berries and even pepper are thrown into the pot to infuse their flavours in the hot water in an alchemy of brewing. The theatre does not stop their as sugar syrup is added to a glass and the brew is poured only to put the whole mixture back in the teapot. Beautiful etched or coloured glasses are brought out from the depths of the Aladdins cave and the tea, now steeped, is poured from a great height into the glasses, not losing an opportunity to blend further spices from the air. This is the ultimate gesture of hospitality and is undertaken with great generosity of spirit. A rare treasure. Unhurried conversation flows. To the cynical of mind it could appear to be a ruse, part of the sale, but this is not a business transaction, it is simply one of human kindness.
A sky full of seagulls wheel about on the unseen turbulence above, their mocking laughter shouted into the wind. It is time to find an oasis of calm.
Thursday 19 March 2015
Facing Freedom (co credit H Khan/J Durrand)
Bravery dances ahead of us but will I get lost along the way? Will the ingredients be somehow lacking at this wonderful and rich new level? Will the Lullaby sound sweeter in French? All is waiting to be discovered. Through the trapdoor and into the dark, moving beyond boundaries, explore the angles and edges in the mothball dark knowing that bitter tastes have a lesson to teach. Life is within if only I can spring the lock I can experience it all; feel it, hold it taste it, embrace it and be kind. Oh, the places you'll go! I breathe in the tongues of flame and sing to myself "all will be well." Pipers playing, Drummers drumming, it is all waiting to be discovered. Will we reunite when the stars dance in the heavens? I have learned about freedom and my Ruby Slippers will bring me home
Finding My Own Wild Space
It is time to shrug off the dull pedestrian life, floating in the shop dummy's embrace. Time to remove myself. A journey from the ordinary to the extraordinary to find the glorious. It is my time to journey to Continents with an open embrace, a ginger space under the sky T sunset and to breathe those cosy harmonies into my dreams.
It is time to pack light and find an olive bed and be at one with the commensurate pattern of all things; breathe deep and suck out the marrow of life; breathe deep and inhale the tingle of spices and salt in the air. There are no boundaries to reject. Come toe to toe with them all and feel each experience as a stitch in the fabric of my quilt. It will keep me warm in the terrible years of armchair living visited on us all in our last days. But I will come to Orion's party and take to the stage telling of my wild space. Oh, what stories I will have to tell.
I will embrace the heat, the dust, the inconvenience of airports and move through new lands soaking in the elemental beauty held in the palm of God's hand. Together with the wild and free adventuring spirits of like minded companions I will journey to lands of imagination, of word, of life.
There may be a dissonant journey to space, a void, but all will be held dear and of import, valued, loved. What a wonder to behold, to cherish, to absorb: to find my own wild space and to share it.
It is time to pack light and find an olive bed and be at one with the commensurate pattern of all things; breathe deep and suck out the marrow of life; breathe deep and inhale the tingle of spices and salt in the air. There are no boundaries to reject. Come toe to toe with them all and feel each experience as a stitch in the fabric of my quilt. It will keep me warm in the terrible years of armchair living visited on us all in our last days. But I will come to Orion's party and take to the stage telling of my wild space. Oh, what stories I will have to tell.
I will embrace the heat, the dust, the inconvenience of airports and move through new lands soaking in the elemental beauty held in the palm of God's hand. Together with the wild and free adventuring spirits of like minded companions I will journey to lands of imagination, of word, of life.
There may be a dissonant journey to space, a void, but all will be held dear and of import, valued, loved. What a wonder to behold, to cherish, to absorb: to find my own wild space and to share it.
Tuesday 17 March 2015
Millicent Married MacCafferty (16/3/15)
Millicent married MacCafferty
Millicent married MacCafferty on a manic Monday morning in May. There's was an unconventional start as they chose to held the reception at the Zoo where they had met for their first date all those many moons ago. MacCafferty's sister, Margery had, as a wedding gift, presented Millicent with an adoption certificate of a spider monkey by the name of Bulldog. It was a most unsuitable name for the poor creature and Millicent smiling sweetly in thanks, vowed secretly to petition the Zoo to have its name changed to Liquorice as it was all string.
The late daffodil babies were in full bloom around the parkland of the Zoo as they wondered with Martin, MacCafferty's best man, to find the best locations for wedding photographs. It was difficult for Millicent to sustain the her smile, what with the big squeeze of MacCafferty's arm about her waist and the bigger squeeze of theTaffetta and corset bracketed about her middle. To be fair it did give the dress a good deal more flair than it would have had without this tutoring of her wayward curves but it was becoming rather difficult to breathe. On top of that rather large inconvenience she was getting face ache from the dimple sustaining smile that Martin was insisting she wear. She wondered if, when they looked at these photographs in years to come ( having discarded the majority after the first year of marriage) whether she would be able to detect her dimple in them, even if she used a magnifying glass.
The metronome on the day ticked away its time and the guests all had a great time with the exception of Great Aunt Margaret who had had an issue with the faucet in the ladies loo. She had appeared, dripping wet and screaming, in the middle of the lawn
" I can't stop it! Somebody help before we all drown."
They had been able to calm her hysterics and establish what had happened after a large Brandy.
It appeared that having lost her initialled Whitby jet Mourning ring, that she had found at a car boot sale after Mike had died (" It's genuine Victoriana you know"), down the plug hole she had elbowed the faucet in her vigorous attempt to get her finger around the bend of the overflow to retrieve it. Fortunately MacCafferty, being a plumber, had sufficient faucet-flair to be able to put it right.
All this before they even got to who liked marmite on toast for breakfast and whether the ghost of wives past would be joining them for breakfast. Millicent was still blissful years away from finding the lipstick stains of another woman on her favourite 'I hate Monday's' mug.
Part 2
Millicent Married MacCafferty on a manic Monday in May. The Muntjack deer were in rut and screamed loudly throughout the reception. It was lucky really that they even heard the commotion when Great Aunt Margaret had her unfortunate incident.
As they waved farewell to their final guests they had both taken one look at each other and broken down in a helplessness of mirth that was so great Millicent knew she would not need to trouble herself about undoing the laces on her corset as they reached the honeymoon bed later as she could feel that the seams had split.
"It's time to run M'Lady. Into the sunset we go."
MacCafferty had run across the lawns I front of her with all the vigour she was hoping he would save for later as she step-hop-skipped behind him aerating the grass as she went with the occasional high heel spike disappearing into the forgiving softness of the late Spring Earth.
They were booked onto the over-night ferry to the South of France for their first night of wedded bliss. Although Millicent was suprised to find a single hammock in the berth she was willing to embrace the experience. After egg and chips on deck she scampered below inviting her groom to lie with her in the daffodil scented hammockof the dock and offered up a silent prayer,
"Let's hope it holds."
Millicent married MacCafferty on a manic Monday morning in May. There's was an unconventional start as they chose to held the reception at the Zoo where they had met for their first date all those many moons ago. MacCafferty's sister, Margery had, as a wedding gift, presented Millicent with an adoption certificate of a spider monkey by the name of Bulldog. It was a most unsuitable name for the poor creature and Millicent smiling sweetly in thanks, vowed secretly to petition the Zoo to have its name changed to Liquorice as it was all string.
The late daffodil babies were in full bloom around the parkland of the Zoo as they wondered with Martin, MacCafferty's best man, to find the best locations for wedding photographs. It was difficult for Millicent to sustain the her smile, what with the big squeeze of MacCafferty's arm about her waist and the bigger squeeze of theTaffetta and corset bracketed about her middle. To be fair it did give the dress a good deal more flair than it would have had without this tutoring of her wayward curves but it was becoming rather difficult to breathe. On top of that rather large inconvenience she was getting face ache from the dimple sustaining smile that Martin was insisting she wear. She wondered if, when they looked at these photographs in years to come ( having discarded the majority after the first year of marriage) whether she would be able to detect her dimple in them, even if she used a magnifying glass.
The metronome on the day ticked away its time and the guests all had a great time with the exception of Great Aunt Margaret who had had an issue with the faucet in the ladies loo. She had appeared, dripping wet and screaming, in the middle of the lawn
" I can't stop it! Somebody help before we all drown."
They had been able to calm her hysterics and establish what had happened after a large Brandy.
It appeared that having lost her initialled Whitby jet Mourning ring, that she had found at a car boot sale after Mike had died (" It's genuine Victoriana you know"), down the plug hole she had elbowed the faucet in her vigorous attempt to get her finger around the bend of the overflow to retrieve it. Fortunately MacCafferty, being a plumber, had sufficient faucet-flair to be able to put it right.
All this before they even got to who liked marmite on toast for breakfast and whether the ghost of wives past would be joining them for breakfast. Millicent was still blissful years away from finding the lipstick stains of another woman on her favourite 'I hate Monday's' mug.
Part 2
Millicent Married MacCafferty on a manic Monday in May. The Muntjack deer were in rut and screamed loudly throughout the reception. It was lucky really that they even heard the commotion when Great Aunt Margaret had her unfortunate incident.
As they waved farewell to their final guests they had both taken one look at each other and broken down in a helplessness of mirth that was so great Millicent knew she would not need to trouble herself about undoing the laces on her corset as they reached the honeymoon bed later as she could feel that the seams had split.
"It's time to run M'Lady. Into the sunset we go."
MacCafferty had run across the lawns I front of her with all the vigour she was hoping he would save for later as she step-hop-skipped behind him aerating the grass as she went with the occasional high heel spike disappearing into the forgiving softness of the late Spring Earth.
They were booked onto the over-night ferry to the South of France for their first night of wedded bliss. Although Millicent was suprised to find a single hammock in the berth she was willing to embrace the experience. After egg and chips on deck she scampered below inviting her groom to lie with her in the daffodil scented hammockof the dock and offered up a silent prayer,
"Let's hope it holds."
Sunday 15 March 2015
Clear
It is clear that you are a child of Mother Nature, blessed in divine creative beauty.
You have no need of shining buckles and glinting baubles to adorn you, you have no need of chemical beauty. You are free like particles of scent on the wind flitting from bough to bough on the ancient gnarled oak, unfettered by roots.
If you venture away from the great oak, Old Father Time, a cloud of honey scent and sugared petals will bring you safely home again, riding high on a caring breeze.
You are held fast in the embrace of the woodland realm, adored by eyes glinting secretly from hollow trunks and root trips, admired for your ethereal beauty.
They wonder how it is that you supped from the serpentine pools of spirit water, that eternal elixir, that shines from you like beams escaping from a backlit cloud.You shimmer with the joy that is born within you and sing out "Throw me to the sun and watch me fall like stars. I am warmth, I am life, I am hope."
You have no need of shining buckles and glinting baubles to adorn you, you have no need of chemical beauty. You are free like particles of scent on the wind flitting from bough to bough on the ancient gnarled oak, unfettered by roots.
If you venture away from the great oak, Old Father Time, a cloud of honey scent and sugared petals will bring you safely home again, riding high on a caring breeze.
You are held fast in the embrace of the woodland realm, adored by eyes glinting secretly from hollow trunks and root trips, admired for your ethereal beauty.
They wonder how it is that you supped from the serpentine pools of spirit water, that eternal elixir, that shines from you like beams escaping from a backlit cloud.You shimmer with the joy that is born within you and sing out "Throw me to the sun and watch me fall like stars. I am warmth, I am life, I am hope."
Belt and Buckle
"Clear up this mess before I get back or you'll answer to my belt" He slammed the door.
It was no idle threat. She felt the raised welts of skin in sinuous mounds across her back. She felt again in her mind the searing pain that had shot through her as those paths were laid down, now a maze of tracks. A superficial healing that buried the true injuries.
When they had first buckled themselves in to life at the farm it had been a lovers nook but over the years their entanglements had become less about love and more about rage. Their life was hard and full of blame. Hope was her only salvation. Hope of change or hope of escape, she didn't much care which.
She took the tin bucket to the well and pumped the water up from the cool depths of the earth saying the verse she had heard in church over and over to her self for comfort, 'trees do bend though straight and tall'. She could live through this diet of silverfish and chalk, endless chores and toil, so long as there was hope. That's what she told herself anyway.
The pump frothed and bloomed, filling the bucket with water clear as the rising moon and she dragged it into the kitchen where the eggs had dropped to the floor. As she wrung the cloth she saw her reddened blue-veined hands, work worn, weary, chapped and briefly mourned the Lily-white smoothness that had been theirs.
She let the water trail serpentine free onto the flagstone before it was constrained and brought into check by the lines and order of the mortared edges. Oh, to be free to cavort like water without boundaries. She dreamed of the freedoms she would like to enjoy. Feeling resentful and rebellious all at once she threw the cloth to the floor and strode to the pantry. The brown bottle uncorked, she poured the beer into a glass revealing it a lightbulb of translucent Amber. She felt strength in her righteousness. She could fight this battle. She would not live in fear any longer.
She raised the glass to her lips as the latch clicked up on the door. She had made it worse again. The gnarled muscles in his neck stood out against the reddening skin as he strode towards her removing his belt. The glass splintered as it hit the floor and she knew she would never find freedom. She could not have the buckle without the strap.
It was no idle threat. She felt the raised welts of skin in sinuous mounds across her back. She felt again in her mind the searing pain that had shot through her as those paths were laid down, now a maze of tracks. A superficial healing that buried the true injuries.
When they had first buckled themselves in to life at the farm it had been a lovers nook but over the years their entanglements had become less about love and more about rage. Their life was hard and full of blame. Hope was her only salvation. Hope of change or hope of escape, she didn't much care which.
She took the tin bucket to the well and pumped the water up from the cool depths of the earth saying the verse she had heard in church over and over to her self for comfort, 'trees do bend though straight and tall'. She could live through this diet of silverfish and chalk, endless chores and toil, so long as there was hope. That's what she told herself anyway.
The pump frothed and bloomed, filling the bucket with water clear as the rising moon and she dragged it into the kitchen where the eggs had dropped to the floor. As she wrung the cloth she saw her reddened blue-veined hands, work worn, weary, chapped and briefly mourned the Lily-white smoothness that had been theirs.
She let the water trail serpentine free onto the flagstone before it was constrained and brought into check by the lines and order of the mortared edges. Oh, to be free to cavort like water without boundaries. She dreamed of the freedoms she would like to enjoy. Feeling resentful and rebellious all at once she threw the cloth to the floor and strode to the pantry. The brown bottle uncorked, she poured the beer into a glass revealing it a lightbulb of translucent Amber. She felt strength in her righteousness. She could fight this battle. She would not live in fear any longer.
She raised the glass to her lips as the latch clicked up on the door. She had made it worse again. The gnarled muscles in his neck stood out against the reddening skin as he strode towards her removing his belt. The glass splintered as it hit the floor and she knew she would never find freedom. She could not have the buckle without the strap.
Rabbits
Wind. A cold blast forcing through the bracken making it bend and crackle against itself. I never liked these biting starts in the Winter, the moon still hovering low in a dawn sky but it is the best time for catching rabbits on the Heath, and I cannot turn my back on free meat in the Winter.
The wind tugs at my wax great coat as if I was a character in Aesops fable but there is no sun to balance the story. It is time to apply more lanolin mix to the canvas of my coat, I can feel the wind through it so the dew will seep through too as I lie in the frosted bracken. I climb higher, keeping to the track through the bogs, hoping good fortune will be with me, and watch as peat dust and dried leaves are swirled in a current and the picture spirals in the wind. The mirror reflection of the sky glitters as the first rays of morning light are caught in the frosty edged dimples of peat puddles and stone hollows. The picture spirals and glitters, spirals and glitters, then all is lulled and I am brought back to the job at hand.
It is a well practiced action. Anticipated. Inevitable. I lay out the snares and offer up my words in a breath-cloud of silent penitence.Good fortune be with me. The School bell rings out its wake-up call as the first buck snares himself. The wire bites down on his neck as he pulls against the snare. The twitching that follows is as inevitable as his end and I dispatch him quickly as the wind sings its lament across the Heath.
November 14 copyright Holly Khan
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