Graham inserted the key. Behind him Julie nibbled her upper lip and looked at the peeling paint on the once dark-blue door. He seemed to her to be taking a long time and it was cold standing out here on the dark doorstep. There was very little light from the street lamp on the opposite side of the road. At last he said, “That’s got it,” and pushed the door open before reaching for the light-switch. The hall stayed dull as if the lamp was operating on low power. “After you,” he reached behind her and stood to one side as she entered, “the first door on the right,”. She took a step forward and turning the handle indicated, pushed the door open. He reached past her and flicked another switch, this time the light was brighter. “Welcome in,” he smiled, “what do you think of it?”
Julie looked around, her first impression was she had entered a Victorian boudoir with two large armchairs, a dresser with a large mirror and old-fashioned china ornaments. A tall dark wood bookcase filled one wall. The top two shelves were crammed with very old looking books in leather binding. She realised that it was probably these which gave the room it’s distinctive, rather unpleasant smell. If she was going to visit him again she would have to do something about that. A strange thought occurred to her that it smelt like something long dead.
Graham looked at her nervously, he could sense something wrong. He hoped that she would not be another of his guests who got frightened and asked to leave before his fun began.
An interesting discussion on Melvyn Bragg’s marvellous programme yesterday. The series is called, “In our time.” and seems to me to have been broadcast since Marconi set the whole thing off. In fact a little bird tells that is the sole reason he worked so hard on his project; in order that he could eavesdrop on the wonderful range of conversations between Melvyn and his guests. I digress, the programme I refer to was on the subject of, “A midsummer night’s dream,” by the man himself, our William. A major part of the success of this play is the ribaldry, perhaps incidental, probably intended, that was sure to appeal to 16th century audiences and has continued to delight us to this day. Without too much elaboration, the attributes of a donkey which may have appealed to Titania and other such conjecture contributes to a marvellous entertainment which I would urge anyone to read or God forbid, find a performance nearby and watch.
above the leafy carpet,
butterflies feign love,
sunbeams make elevators
where mosquitoes choose to dance
Nursed unto the death,
final act of devotion,
eyes gently closing,
only memories remain
in that void once filled with love.
Full green surrounded,
each shaded bank, where moss-lined,
torpid waters lap,
twilight stirring, surfaces
from below, an ancient carp
His laughter was as the echo
of a thousand crows
lined in serried ranks
upon the branches
of a hundred graceful pines,
each silent, standing sentinel
over the boundless plains.
I realised my folly
for had I not stroked
the curving brazen contours
and in one foul stroke, released
the fabled genie of the lamp
Rather eerie but this his tale for today.
British Summer Time, the evenings are lighter and the weather is colder. How apt. I love the lighter evenings as after work it’s possible to get out into the countryside, weather permitting, and do all the things you have been sitting in the lounge vowing you would do as soon as it was light enough after the day’s work is done. Today was such, my first foray out to try and capture a church spire in the evening gold. Sadly the church itself was closed but that is just a sad reflection of the times in which we live. Still, if you are looking for a little quiet contemplation and a moment away from traffic, hustle and bustle, a churchyard serves it’s purpose well. The church in question is in a little village called Wilby on the outskirts of Wellingborough and I was attracted to it’s spire with it’s magnificent ornate buttresses way up in the sky. Sources tell me that this church dedicated to St. Mary dates from the thirteenth century but was extensively rebuilt in 1879. The unique spire was built during the Decorated period and shows many features pleasing to the enthusiast.
One noticeable thing about this evening was the sighting of a bright, white grave marker close to the path leading to the porch. It is an official war-grave, probably the only one I have ever seen in all my years. It commemorates the death of a RAF pilot who died at the age of 22. Curiously it was dated on my birthday, but in 1944. So much has been said about their sacrifice but seeing a single marker like this lends a stark reality to the horror of war.
Consumed by vanity she was absorbed in her own reflection.
She stands alone above the shore,
where waves roll in, roll out once more
wet shingle sings throughout the night
reflecting beams of pale moonlight,
while those who visit from the land
leave loud footprints in the sand
each brief message only lasts one day
till every trace is washed away
like their dwellings built on banks of clay.
While the tambours played
Psyche dancing, offered him
the key to her heart.