I seek..

A place of exquisite pleasantry -

where we may lie beneath the sun and look him straight in the eye,
and tea is served with delicate cakes and muffins, 
where men are gallant and adventurous like authors,
and ladies are gentle but brave like nightingales,
where pretty stories are matched only by the loveliness of real Summer,
and words are laced together rather than strung,
where music is better played than heard. 

I continue to search for this place.

I found it once, if only the front gate, and it was wonderful and proud.

The Day Is Changed.

He is blind, and seems so accustomed to being that man. No victim of poverty or reason for pity, only an actor of a forgotten tragedy. He is our neighbour, our friend behind café’s glass window. He follows the sound of our agendas, his body moves amongst ours. What is he to us but another brush of shoulders and fingers as we push past?

Yet there he begins to stray. He moves uneasily, almost child-like. He is still, fearful of change he cannot see. Turn and see how his lips tremble, his eyes wild and desperate. Why does he search with his eyes like a fool?

Hark! He is not a blind man after all! He is a boy with newly stolen eyes, and God is his thief. He is terrified by blindness, for noise is but chaos without a face to match the voice.

He is terrified.

We watch him, intrigued by this anomaly. What do we expect to see? By some miracle that he may be guided through the dark by chance? We pass him by, hurried in our own hedonistic pursuits. But before we leave him, we look behind us so we might see the kind nature of compassion that we were too busy for.

God may be a thief, but we are cowards.

A Strange Happening.

Love is such a strange thing.

A lifetime of poets and painters will search for its form, washing blood with tears in her name, proclaiming kingdoms for it. What profound shape it has that it will move nations and destroy them all the same. Perhaps you have been struck by its dissonant chord, or have had her trembling hand grasp upon your heart.

Do you remember the first time she caught your eye? Cupid strikes with his humble arrows but you were terrorised with the force of a thousand-strong army. She moves you like the silver-veiled moon; she cuts you like Queen Elizabeth. You are changed for her – your Lady Macbeth.

Yet what becomes of you after you have slain yourself? Does she die beautifully as your Juliet? Love cannot live while lovers do, and so she runs, before any cold finger of lust or passion can touch her. You are a victim of an unfinished tragedy, and so upon a stage shall you stand, naked and alive.

Dear Child, love has hurt you and left you to defend its honour with no promises of return. She will not return, so leave her doorstep. Don’t forget the warmth of her smile, but try not to remember the sound of her laugh.

She was but a mere happening.

 

Some strange, senseless happening.