Author: Alexander Fawn

These ancient pillars stand, with spreading hoods,

While Nature’s colours paint the woods.

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Surrounded now by towering trees,

Softly swaying in the breeze.

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Stepping over withered roots;

Ankles brushing grassy shoots.

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Shady patches with woodland spaces.

Windswept banks and silent places.

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Tangled branches form a web,

Keeping sunrays at an ebb.

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Reeds and grasses softly quiver,

Along the banks of stream and river.

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Smooth and rough and jagged trunks.

Paperbark hangs in stringy chunks.

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Arching branches and tangled leaves,

Lining pathways with shady eaves.

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Healthy trees standing gladly.

Withering trees drooping sadly.

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Some ripped and torn and showing strife;

Others pristine, green with life.

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Mighty boughs like arms stretched wide;

Others grounded, cast aside.

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Windblown needles send out a cry,

While large, soft leaves merely sigh.

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Flaking bark and stringy vines.

Twiggy patterns of all designs.

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Leaves gyrate in a churning wind;

Falling, leaving branches thinned.

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Broken pieces from nature’s store

Lie scattered across the forest floor.

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Ancient pillars, with spreading hoods,

All while Nature’s colours paint the woods.

Big Al sat fingering the cigarette he had wormed out of his impoverished senior workmate. He smiled at it. The early morning breeze billowed the machine shop blind and a glimpse of a shapely nurse faded amid the shrubs outside.

“Damn” he muttered. “How am I supposed to have lude thoughts about these nymphs, if I don’t get a proper look at them?”

He slumped back into his favourite smoking chair and contemplated the prospect of another day and the internal interplay between himself and those who would move about him in the hours to come.

He sat musing. Would he say this to him? If she didn’t interfere, was there a chance that those two might not do that, if such and such was said? What if those three could get together and agree not to say this to her anymore? What would be the affect if…?

He glanced down at the cigarette again and wondered what it was like to have to actually pay for the enjoyment of smoking.

The day passed much like any other.

Just then, his boss, a friendly, if out of pocket figure appeared in the doorway.

“If you’re staying on a bit mate, pull the door to when you go. Good night” he said, and shuffled off whistling something by Mozart. Al thought… happy enough fellow considering he had nothing to smoke on the way home.

Big Al looked at his watch, it was ten to six.

A door banged shut, more whistling, fading.

The cigarette was lit. He was cutting down. He took a long satisfying puff.

Big Al has wormed his way through another day, with minimal interruption.

Father Patrick O’Halloran was a much respected priest.

His village church was very old, and as such difficult to maintain; but this had no effect on the regularly high numbers in his congregation. The consensus among the village parishioners was that they were lucky to have him. He always found time to stop and talk, listen patiently to their problems and give holy guidance whenever it was needed.

It had been a day of stormy weather and as the evening came on it was still raining. Despite this, there had been a good turnout. This evening Father O’Halloran would be hearing confessions; a regular service he performed with such reverence that he always had at least a dozen in the queue, sitting in front of the rather ancient looking confessional. This evening was no different, at least, not in numbers. Fifteen sinners had occupied the front pew waiting their turn. They all knew each other of course, being a small village, so they were all very much aware that on this occasion they had a guest.

The stranger, who they noticed had actually come in shaking off his wet clothes halfway through the service, had taken a seat further along the bench away from the others, taking the last place in the line. Naturally, a few whispered comments ensued, mainly giving him the credit of allowing the locals to go first; giving them priority as it were. This resulted in an occasional smile being sent his way that seemed to cause him more than a little discomfort.

The stranger sat in an agitated manner until it was his turn. When the last person came out, he sat waiting for the last of the stragglers to leave the church. He then rose, and after taking a final look looking around, cautiously entered the confessional booth and sat down.

He coughed nervously, then announced “Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was several years ago”.

The priest, who was almost invisible through the little mesh window, but clearly heard, said “What is it that you have done my son.”

“I have killed a man, Father”.

There was a long silence, followed by an audible sigh from the priest.

“Tell me more about your sin; how was it done, and…” then after a short pause the priest said “why was it done?”

The stranger leant a little closer to the dividing window and spoke in a softer voice. “It was done with a gun, Father”.

The priest sighed again.

“Yes, it was done with a gun and all of the instructions I received were followed to the letter. Of course, I did not know the man myself, I was following the instructions. I was paid… and I followed all of the instructions”.

The priest could now be heard whispering a prayer. He said “Thank you my son. Before I can grant you absolution, you must vow never to repeat this terrible sin. Do you promise this my son?”

“I do Father. I will never commit such a dreadful sin again. As God is my witness, never again”.

“Very good”. The priest sounded satisfied with this response.

“For your penance, say fifty Hail Marys every day for the remainder of this year. Will you do this?”

“Yes Father I will”.

“God bless you my son”.

With this, the priest uttered his prayer of absolution.

After a further awkward silence the man said. “Is that it Patrick? Is everything OK now?”

“That’s fine Mikey, just fine. That sews it up neatly. I do have to ask you one more thing before you leave… Did he suffer?”

“No, not at all Patrick. It really was all done exactly as you instructed”.

“Thank you Mikey, you be on your way now. You mind the roads, they can be treacherous in this filthy weather, and you’ve a long drive in front of you”.

The family car is travelling along the highway, on its way to the beach for a few hours of relaxation. Tom is driving, his wife, Jean, sits beside him. In the back seat is Bubs, strapped into a child-seat and Pooch, the family dog, sits bolt upright watching the passing scenery.

Tom and Jean have just had words and the car has fallen silent.

Jean thinks: God! It’s so typical of him, to take us all out like this and have no idea where the petrol stations are.

Tom thinks: What the hell was she going on about? We’ve still got well over a quarter of a tank. We’re on a main road for heaven’s sake! There must be dozens of garages further along.

Pooch thinks: Don’t like it when they talk so loud. I wish this thing next to me would stop those horrible gurgling noises. What sort of thing is it anyway? It’s so small; and it smells funny.

Bubs thinks: This person next to me is really ugly, and he dribbles more than me! He doesn’t seem to have any skin. His eyes and mouth are really strange. He doesn’t’ say much; he only coughs.

Jean thinks: I bet he’s forgotten that Bubs is going to need a feed well before we get there. We’ll probably go through the whole ritual of draping towels around the car while I’m breast feeding.

Tom thinks: I hope we start back in time to watch tonight’s game. I daren’t say that, of course. I’ll just stress the point that I don’t like driving in the dark.

Pooch thinks: I wonder why this person doesn’t have any hair. He leans across for a better look.

Bubs thinks: His face is very big, and his eyes are really black and shiny. I wonder what they are made of? Bubs shoves a finger into the closest eye.

Pooch yelps. Bubs starts bawling, Jean screams and Tom slams on the brakes.

Jean thinks: I knew something like this would happen.

Bubs thinks: We’ve stopped. Good. I’m hungry.

Pooch thinks: Jees! That hurts. I won’t enjoy the view so much now. Not with one eye closed, I won’t.

Tom thinks: Next time, we’ll take the bus…

The mighty cliff stood looking out to sea.

It could see the great, swelling waves coming in, all the way from the distant horizon. It considered the influence that the moon and the sun had on the tides. It thought about the great rising and falling of the seas and how this was brought about by the powerful forces that were constantly at play.

It reflected on the singular relationship that existed between its planet, the moon and the sun, and their perpetual movements in space, and the effect that all this has on the vast oceans around the planet.

It envisaged the miraculous balancing of water levels that takes place while its planet, spinning on its axis with centrifugal force pushing out, competes with gravity pulling in.

It thought about the low and the high tides, and how it was the high tide that carried out the never-ending pounding at its base. It sighed as it considered yet again just how much damage it did and how this marred the proud statement it made, sitting as it did at the forefront of all the land behind it.

It knew all this but couldn’t stop the everlasting corrosion to its majestic stand; its towering edifice, its shear grandiose beauty.

Just then a great mountain of sea crashed noisily into its lofty surface. Cracks widened and splinters of rock were shattered free, dragged back down its face to be swallowed by the gurgling foam at its foot. Then, after a moment of calm, it felt a steady rumbling vibrate within it, followed by a mighty crack.

A great slab of the cliff face toppled down into the foam, there to be ground into tiny pieces by the relentless movements of the tide.

It groaned, and thought “Oh! Great! There goes another bit!”

There are so many kinds of clutter;

They don’t have to be very large.

They can all be easily cleared away,

As long as you’re willing to take charge.

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Or, if a house is filled with such stuff

With no chance it will ever subside,

You can step out into the garden

And forget what you have inside.

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But if you enjoy foraging around

In the great junk drawer of life,

Who is to say you can’t live that way,

Whether you’re husband or wife.

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You may tend to wade through such clutter,

As you move from room to room.

Such as packets of seeds, fully expired,

The head of a garden broom.

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Jigsaw pieces, a broken zipper,

A paperweight never used.

Tiny nuts and screws, books never read;

A receipt that left you confused.

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Misshaped paperclips, jam jar lids,

Batteries alive and dead;

A combination note for something or other,

An ear from a lost figurine’s head.

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Seashells from a forgotten seashore,

A saved label from some bottle of brandy.

There are bits and pieces of this and that.

You’re quite sure they’ll come in handy.

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If it exists it’s because you need it,

Of that there is no doubt.

When all’s said and done,

At the end of the day,

Surely, the clutter will sort itself out!

She stood for several minutes gazing at the huge canvas.

It was as she was moving away that she heard his voice. “You get lost in him, don’t you?” Startled, she looked behind her. She said “Sorry?” “The artist I mean. You get lost in him.” She went back to the picture and nodded slowly. “Yes. You do.” He stood closer saying “I find that in all his work.”

That was how it started. A classic whirlwind romance really. It was as though neither of them expected it. They spent the whole afternoon walking around the gallery. They had so much in common, quite apart from their mutual love of paintings.

They left as the gallery was closing and he asked if she would like to go for a meal. She hesitated, saying that she did have some commitments, but finally decided that it was nothing that couldn’t wait. After all, blushing slightly, she said she had enjoyed the afternoon so much she didn’t want it to end.

After walking through the city, looking in shop windows, taking in the sights, and constantly talking and finding out all they needed to know about each other, they arrived at a restaurant he recommended. The evening was spent wining and dining. It was late when he paid the bill and they made their way out onto the street.

They stood for a while, his arm around her, breathing in the night air. He said “I don’t live far from here. Would you like to come back for a coffee?”

She looked a little embarrassed and said “Would you mind if I said no, not this time. It has been a wonderful day and I don’t want to rush things. Next time, you have my number”. She gave him a hug and kissed him. He smiled and reluctantly hailed her a taxi. When it pulled up she got in and blew him a kiss as it moved off into the traffic. He stood, watching it disappear into the night.

In the taxi she looked down at the wallet. It was fat. Not easy to lift. She was pleasantly surprised at how much cash it contained. It was only a short hop to the next city.

She could fly!

The house stood empty looking and feeling sad.

The old, two-storey house at the end of Haven Lane, had been there a long time. It had been very quiet of late, but now there was a real estate agent getting out of his car with a ‘For Sale’ placard fixed to a stake. The house knew that this would happen. Mrs Harris had been gone for quite some time and a strangers hand held the keys that locked it all up. It was inevitable that, as old as it was, someone would eventually come in and make it their own. Mrs Harris was a lovely old lady, very gentle, was always respectful, she cleaned and treated the house well. Would she ever comeback?

After banging in the sign, and after sending unwanted vibrations through the house, the agent approached the front door jangling a set of keys. The house prepared itself. He stood for a moment, selected one, then pushed it into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. He wondered, had they been labelled wrong? He tried another. The house was holding fast. With all its might it held the lock’s tumblers tight. After trying all of the keys, the agent returned to his car and drove away.

The house sighed with relief. This was a reprieve only, it knew that. He would be back. He would break in if he had to, this the house also knew. When will the old lady return? Would she ever return? Peculiar things had happened when strangers had come in and removed all the furniture, including the bed and her favourite chair. Where would she sleep? Where would she sit? She never used any of the other chairs. The steady pulsing sound and reverberation of her old, comfy rocking chair would send a soothing lullaby through the house, through the beams and walls and ceilings. Would the house never feel this again? Somehow, the house knew that Mrs Harris wasn’t coming back! The house would not allow itself to be sold to any new owners. The house would need to think about this; it had to decide for itself what sort of future it had.

The agent returned after office hours with more keys. This time, the door unlocked with ease and he entered with a small bag. He made his way to the lounge and proceeded to measure the room. He was measuring and writing figures down in a notebook. He was moving from room to room, but the light was failing. He went to the switchboard and flicked the main switch. A light came on in the kitchen and he went back to measuring cupboards.

The house felt the familiar pulse of electricity tingling through its wires. The house searched, looking for the weakest point. It found it. A floor socket in an unused bedroom was loose. It had been damaged a long time ago but left unused. The wiring behind it was old and decayed. The house waited.

The man finally packed his things up and carrying his bag in one hand and a small torch in the other, made his way back to switch the power off. The house waited; now straining to maintain its focus on the damaged socket. As the agent approached the switch board he didn’t hear the pop of the socket or the smell of burning wires. He flicked the switch, and using his torch the agent made his way back to the front door, passed through and locked it. As he climbed into his car he didn’t hear the crackle of flames running along the floor skirting, or the pungent odour of smouldering paint.

By the time the alarm had been raised and the fire service was called and on the scene, it was too late. The fire was burning fiercely, but it was contained. Nothing around it was in danger of catching alight; so it was allowed to slowly burn itself out.

In the middle of the night, a single glowing ember, the very last, blinked out… and with it, the house gave a tiny sigh.

The poet walked in his garden, listening to the birds.

This was something he did quite regularly, but this morning would not be regular. It began when a dove settled on a branch just above him and chirped out a little song. He looked up and said “Well now, that is certainly different. Since when did you start singing that particular tune? “

“I’m surprised you noticed the difference” replied the dove. “Not many would you know, or for that matter, not many could.”

“Well I can certainly hear the difference, why is that?”

“Why is what? … why is it different or why can you hear it?”

The poet replied “Both, I suppose.” He thought for a moment, then went on “Quite apart from those two questions, what about the question of me being able to talk to you, surely that in itself is quite remarkable, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really.”

“Oh! Not really you say?”

“No. There are lots of people who can do that. Most of the time they are not believed of course, but they can do it.”

“I had no idea!”

“Oh! Yes, I think Francis might have started it all, or at least helped it along.”

“Francis?”

“…of Assisi.”

“Oh! Yes, of course, him.”

“He used to preach to them, you know.”

“Them?”

“The birds.”

“Oh! Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, they, or we I should say, would flock to hear him speak. He was such a nice man.”

The poet lifted his shoulders and stretched a little, as if to bring himself back to the point. He continued “OK. Some people are able to converse with birds. We have established that, but why can I hear the difference in the call you make?”

“I just don’t know the answer to that, it puzzles me. I’ll ask around later. Meanwhile, I’ll confide in you about the difference.”

“Confide?”

“Yes, confide.”

“I am honoured.”

The dove said “You should be” and turned his head to the side. “I have met my partner. Yes, only yesterday we sat on a branch together, not far from here. She is by far the prettiest dove you ever did see, and she has agreed to be my partner. Hence the difference in my call. Only she can recognise it.”

The poet said “That is truly wonderful! I am so happy for you and I thank you most sincerely for sharing your good news with me.”

The dove said “You’re welcome.”

The poet stood with his palms open “So, where is this beauty now?”

“Behind you”, came the proud reply.

He turned and looked up at the dove; it was a very beautiful bird. At this point she lowered her head and breast very low, then came slowly up.

The poet bowed in return.

At this point there was a flapping of wings; first he then she, sailed off to start a new life together.

The poet went back into his secluded room, to carefully set down an account of it all.

 

 

 

 

He knows he needs to let go of that last bus ride home.
He had known for months that her folks were moving overseas. They had already found a new school for her. They knew they weren’t coming back. He just had no idea how much of a loss it was going to be. She was so bright; such a good pupil. He was never very good at history, or geography when it came right down to it. When he thought about it, she had taught him everything he knew.
It had started at the school dance over a year ago. Her closeness, her whispered humour, the fragrance of her hair. Honeysuckle, she had told him, when he asked about it. Some shampoo with a scent of honeysuckle. Despite his age, it was an old aroma that came back to him from his really early childhood when the family would visit Grandma. It was an old house with a toilet out the back, almost hidden by the climbing shrub, all but covered with fragrant white and yellow flowers. Hundreds of tiny coloured tubes giving off their sweet perfume. He had no idea how much those earlier memories had attracted him to her, but there they were… very real.
But he had to move on. He knew how much her going had affected him. He knew how much he needed to let go of the painful loss, the lingering grief and the scent of her hair; all those things he experienced during those last few minutes. The remaining moments of that last ride home on the school bus.
He had watched from the back window until she was out of sight, then, like now, he was left with only the fragrance of her hair.
Her name was Sally, but for him she would always be… Honeysuckle.