The wayfarer

He stands, with his back to the sun.                                                                                                                         He thinks about his home and what he’s left behind.

His family.

His dog.

The takes his weathered straw hat off and places it next to his heart.                                                     Or the cavity that was his heart,                                                                                                                                   His heart disappeared many years ago- so people say.

His hair is not yet grey but jet, but textured like the coarsest grass.                                                         He has a young face but his eyes are flecked with something else- so they say.                                  Loss?                                                                                                                                                                           Tiredness?

He jams his hat back onto his head with unwarranted fervour,                                                             then continues along the road again,                                                                                                                       step after step, trudging along.

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I’m sorry for not posting in a while- I’ll try to post more often in future.

A picture tells 1000 words: The island

(Photo credits:  https://ednagicovi.wordpress.com/2011/05/09/the-%E2%80%98desert-island%E2%80%99-question-2/)ads

Deep in the realms of the Pacific Ocean there is an island, shrouded in steam and surrounded by an azure sea and an azure sky.  The sand gently rises up out of the waves and continues to the rainforest in the centre of the island, a vast mess of emerald creepers and dripping bark.

No one has been here for 1000 years.  The sand has no footprints on it, the only movement it makes is when the lightest, coolest wind blows across the dunes, scattering the grains.

The rainforest has been untouched too.  The animals thrive happily in this secluded portion of heaven- or hell.  It’s hot and steamy, and far away from anything.  Someone could love this island, but another person would hate it.   They would hate the heat and the constant buzzing of insects, the abundance of poisonous plants that lurk in the tangle of creepers and vines.

But from far away it looks like an island paradise that people dream about and write about.

A picture tells 1000 words: The Market

market

It was uncommonly busy on Saturdays.  All the stalls had red and blue awnings and all the market traders were shouting.  Fruit was for sale, of course, and vegetables, and fish.  Fish is quintessential in any market, on a bed of ice with a grizzled trader shouting ‘Haddock!  Haddock for sale!’ over them.  Other things were displayed in their stalls as well, army uniforms, clothes, towels, and badges all were included in this market.  The whole market had so much colour to it; especially the fruit stall- from fire engine red tomatoes to amethyst purple grapes.  The oranges lay in their crates, quietly, only to be picked up and fondled by passing customers.  The same with the melons and the apples.  A spilt water can rolls over the pavement, the water is trickling down the road in tiny tributaries, finally spilling into the gutter.  There are olives, too.  Wooden bowls full of tiny, medium and large black, brown and green olives.  There are tomatoes too, and cheese- it’s an Italian feast.

The people in the market are very interesting as well- it’s quite simply a cross section of society. There are the groups of teenagers, who aren’t being loutish but are just sitting on the benches in the town or browsing the clothes stalls.  Then there are the Mums and children with buggies- the mums are forever telling their brood not to touch the Frozen toys, or the fruits or the fish.  The slightly strange bearded men with their accordions are there, eating fish and chips while sitting on the benches, staring at the whole scene.  They have their hats and their sticks with the shiny silver skulls on top of them.  The teenagers are slightly wary.

Of course, it’s not just all about the market, people are using the other shops as well.  The market takes place in the high street, and nearby there are book shops, charity shops, et cetera.  The weather was hot and everyone was out, threading in and out of shops and threading their way through stalls.

(Photo credits: http://www.leedsmarkets.co.uk )

London Rain

london-rain Underground signs are simply a red blemish in the taxi window.  I step out of the pub onto the slick pavement, pay the driver, and continue on my journey home.  The Shard is glistening among the raindrops in the distance, the OXO Tower’s O, X, and O lit up the skyline.  I go underground, away from the inundation of water on street level.   A short train ride takes me to another station, where a large glass wall looks over the river, to tower Tower Bridge, past the Shard and other towers. These buildings are made of glass, and in the night they are illuminated, but the glass looks black.   The river rushes through the city uninterrupted, a torrent of black water that used to bring the city trade.  From above it looks like it’s meandering gently but it’s only when you’re riverside or above it, like I am, that you see that it’s a much faster flowing river than that.  The station is made of glass and white metal girders, and the trains come quickly.  There are whit chairs to sit on, and glowing signs with the details of all the trains.  A smoothly running station.  My train, a cuboidal pink, blue and yellow locomotive, glides into the station, and I board it, happy to be going home.

 

(Photo credits:  www.reneedezvous.wordpress.com)

Constable Abbott and the Cloche

Constable Abbott walked round the low, wooden table and stared at the object in front of him.   It was a red cloche hat with picturesquely disgusting green trimmings.  The Constable picked it up with his thumb and forefinger and examined it.  There was no label saying that it was evidence of any kind, but then no one in Bingington-over-Water Constabulary would wear this hat.  The cloche was made of a felty material which was heavy with water.  The whole hat was several shades darker than in normally would have appeared because of the dampness-  Abbott wouldn’t be surprised life would start growing on it.  It smelt of mould mixed with the aroma of heavy perfume and what smelled like the Eastern Skunk Cabbage.  Abbott, of course, had never had the opportunity to smell such a flower, oh no, as a junior police officer he didn’t tend to go to ‘wetland soils in North America’.  He had read on Wikipedia that the odour of the Eastern Skunk Cabbage was one of the biggest pains on the olfactory system, so he supposed it must be true.

In any case, the hat smelt disgusting.  Abbott squeezed some of the moisture out of it, and a trickle of old-tea colour water dripped on the  table.  The hat wilted on the table.  Wet felt felt disgusting, Abbott thought.   He still didn’t know why it was here.  He had just found it lying on the table.  Anyone might leave a hat around, but a drenched, mouldy cloche?  It was a mystery.

Charlie’s Struggle.

It was an ignoble end.  Charlie placed his pet in the cold muddy earth.  He stepped back and looked at the corpse of the dead dog.  Cookie was stiff and cold.  Charlie wiped away a solitary tear as he remembered Cookie when she was a puppy, bounding around and jumping on tables.  It was over.  It was all over.  Cookie was gone.  Charlie fell to the ground.  It seemed he was drowning under the heavy mantle of grief.  He couldn’t handle it.

Cookie has died.  Cookie has died.  Cookie has died.   He repeated this in his head, trying to comprehend it all.  But he couldn’t.

Why?  Why?  ‘Why’ was the word that kept on overtaking the mantra of ‘Cookie has died.’  Why would any God take away his only friend?  Charlie couldn’t understand.

Why.

Why.

Why.

Charlie’s beliefs and confidences dissolved away as he finally accepted the dog in the grave was Cookie, and that he would never hear the mournful bark again.