Sta.sh
| Furlong. I am a little boy and my best friend is dead. We still play together in a land inside my head. Then, there are the moments when I let tears flood. Remembering the times when you were flesh and blood. You were always gentle and kind in every way. Noble was your countenance and friendly was your eye. You knew when I was sad and came close to take the pain. Sometimes nudging at an elbow with your nose or pawing me again. To other men you were a dog, but none of them could see. You are so much more than that. You are still my best friend to me. You have moved on. I’d like to follow soon, but for a while that cannot be. We shall see each other by and by. Until then we’ll keep our memories. Sad Tale. Imagine the wide sky over windless downs. Eyes following clear water chasing through an empty land. Sense the growing wind. See startled birds flying. Grass trampled by warrior clans. Great wains are pulled by proud horses. Households and Lords, encamped by rivers edge. Trees felled. Ground harrowed. Cattle herded. Yellow grain harvested. Passing years yield high mounds and fences raised. Commerce thrives. King’s Hall is up-builded. Carved pillars support arched roof. Guards stand at gilded doors. Many years pass. Great kings depart. New kings come with treasures safe in store. Soft crawls deep mist, white cloaking river. Guards at gate 'round fire huddled. Long-ships grounded on banks of shingle. Horns blow, calling men to battle. Gate overthrown! Warriors flee before red swords falling. Smell the High Hall burning. Smoke blackened children calling. Useless treasures are gone now. Free folk enslaved. Tears stain black bones of houses. No mounds over slain folk raised. Sky filled with smoke. Carrion flocks massing under hail. Old hag calls forth the grey wolves. Sad is my tale. SAR. You met me deep in the grasp of night. Together we stood below the neon arc. We trembled in fear of the blue-coated demons of the dark. We walked, hand in hand, on the cotton-wool grass. Stumbled on fairy rings, and other things we never knew existed. Though we always hoped they did. Exchanging glances with the shadowy figures. They are like us in need of love and so afraid to ask, So, they sink into loneliness behind a paper mask. They spend the night wide awake, yet in a trance. They’re hypnotised by the fateful Tarot Card's dance. Many are sad people who sit, afraid of shades and stars. They cower in rooms illuminated by the lights of motor cars. They feel safe, in bed, behind their bolted doors. Unaware that danger comes from deep inside them-selves, Not from the locked out life and poison jars on chemists shelves. On we walk in the lonely streets. We cross our hearts as their coffins are borne away. Firalarin. I walked through the meads of Firalarin. The sun was warm upon my brow. Over bridge and under hills shadow wound my road. Silent, in the red-flushed dusk I waited. A wind blew from the West, salt scented by the sea. Into the river I strode and lay upon my back, floating swiftly, to be lost in the grey river’s mouth. On into the crystal clearness I was carried above the forests of weed and mountains of sunken realms. I was lifeless flotsam drifting over sandy roads and forgotten walls. I walk again in Firalarin where I have walked before and listened long to the eerie songs of trees in the wind. The hills are green and the grass still long. The great ocean gulls still fly up the river from the sea. Lights are lit and ale is poured. All is warm within. But, out in the cold and calm beneath silvered stars I walk with phantom footsteps through the meads of Firalarin. All Is Well. Around the shattered deck of the Ship of Stars, Ebbing souls are torn away from the salt lashed broken spars. Howling winds rage with shrieks and maniacal squeals. Here, the losing of life is offered as the only deal For the frantic mariners unexpectedly invited to tea With their permanent foe, the wild Old Man of the Sea. Black skies and dark shores witness the horror as it unfolds. The enraged ocean sweeps flotsam from the violated hold. Behind fastened shutters the red-eyed widows pray in vain. But their tears aren’t for those whom they won't see again. They weep for the many children who sleep safe in bed. Adults sobbing at the dread of how to say, "Your father's dead." In the morning from a solemn tower the knell tolls forlornly. A fleet of gloomy craft creep out to scour the sea. Emptiness invades the soul. Wreathes drop from trembling hands. They’re just simple tributes to be recovered later upon the sand. These are the pointless halos of the lost and found. The memory of a foundered vessel with all hands drowned. The elder ones stand swathed in black watching the swell, All ears are straining hard, hoping to hear the proud ship’s bell. Are they ringing out again in the wind that once filled the sails? The imaginary bells are chiming seductively and sonorously lying that all is well. |
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