Solitude’s the best of things,
Yet loneliness the worst.
Listen, a pariah sings,
Of the silent crypt rehearsed.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Empty halls weigh heavy
Empty halls weigh heavy,
Upon a lonely heart.
Pay the social levy,
Else you’ll always stand apart.
Upon a lonely heart.
Pay the social levy,
Else you’ll always stand apart.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
The Rabbit Who Loved
Once there was a rabbit named Florence, who slept all day and wandered the hills all night.
‘It’s not natural,’ pleaded her mother, ‘for a rabbit to be nocturnal. We need sunshine to nourish our bodies.’
‘It’s not safe,’ roared her father, ‘for a rabbit to walk abroad at night. There are many predators that eat foolish rabbits.’
Despite these parental protests, she continued in her unorthodox lifestyle, insisting that any alteration would make her unhappy.
Yet there was another reason for Florence’s behaviour, one which she’d divulged only to her closest friend Blossom.
‘I’m in love,’ she’d explained one dusk.
‘In love? With who?’
‘The moon,’ Florence had sighed wistfully, glancing upwards at the conspicuously moonless sky. ‘When the moon is out, I sit and watch him lovingly – and when he leaves, I sit and weep each night for his return.’
‘But you can’t love the moon,’ laughed Blossom.
‘Why not? I thought you’d understand.’
‘You can’t love the moon, because your love will always be unrequited. He couldn’t love you back even if he wanted to, and you deserve someone who can. There are plenty of handsome bucks in our warren – forget this silly fancy and rejoin your kin.’
‘I shall love whoever I choose to love,’ shouted Florence, racing away. Blossom did not follow – she hoped her friend would, given time, overcome this infatuation.
Yet Florence’s love only grew stronger as the nights grew black and chill, so her parents renewed their pleas.
‘It was all very well to enjoy the summer nights,’ reasoned her mother, ‘but the winter nights will make you ill. Come, rejoin your kin.’
‘We can all see how thin and sad you’ve become,’ exclaimed her father. ‘It is because you’ve isolated yourself for too long. Come, rejoin your kin.’
Although she didn’t heed their calls, Florence knew that she had indeed become thin and sad. While other rabbits happily mated, she lingered in her twilit existence.
Blossom’s fears for her friend had strengthened too. Often she would seek out the newly woken Florence at dusk and lament how little time they shared together anymore.
Still Florence continued in her routine, for she couldn’t bear to sleep in the knowledge that her beloved moon might be waiting outside. Even as the coldest time of year approached, she maintained the nightly ritual.
It was only now that Blossom, tormented by anxiety, visited Florence’s parents and revealed their daughter’s obsession with the moon. ‘This is far worse than we thought,’ they replied, and resolved to confront Florence.
So it occurred that one dawn, as Florence slipped back into her home for a day’s rest, her parents revealed their knowledge and delivered an ultimatum: that Florence must either conform to her family’s expectations or leave the warren forthwith.
‘In that case, I must leave,’ Florence murmured, and did so. Her mother was distraught, and drew little comfort from Father Rabbit’s assertion that Florence would soon return and beg forgiveness.
A week later Florence was still absent from the warren, instead sleeping in quiet forest-holes from day to day, but she was severely weakened by the ordeal.
‘Please, you can stay with my family if necessary,’ begged Blossom after a long day’s searching for her old friend’s hideout. ‘You must come back – your mother cries daily for her loss.’
‘I never wished to cause my family any pain, but I must pursue my love,’ Florence said simply.
Blossom did not tell Florence’s mother of this exchange, for she did not wish to cause the poor lady any more suffering.
One night the snowstorms came, and Florence began to scream at her love: ‘Moon, why won’t you love me? I have given all, yet still you turn away.’ She fell to weeping at the pain of all she’d sacrificed, until a sudden warmth filled her heavy limbs and she exited this world.
Although the rabbits of the warren never knew for sure what became of Florence, her name echoed down the ages as a byword for those whose love put all others to shame, and there were many who claimed the moon never shone so seductively again.
‘It’s not natural,’ pleaded her mother, ‘for a rabbit to be nocturnal. We need sunshine to nourish our bodies.’
‘It’s not safe,’ roared her father, ‘for a rabbit to walk abroad at night. There are many predators that eat foolish rabbits.’
Despite these parental protests, she continued in her unorthodox lifestyle, insisting that any alteration would make her unhappy.
Yet there was another reason for Florence’s behaviour, one which she’d divulged only to her closest friend Blossom.
‘I’m in love,’ she’d explained one dusk.
‘In love? With who?’
‘The moon,’ Florence had sighed wistfully, glancing upwards at the conspicuously moonless sky. ‘When the moon is out, I sit and watch him lovingly – and when he leaves, I sit and weep each night for his return.’
‘But you can’t love the moon,’ laughed Blossom.
‘Why not? I thought you’d understand.’
‘You can’t love the moon, because your love will always be unrequited. He couldn’t love you back even if he wanted to, and you deserve someone who can. There are plenty of handsome bucks in our warren – forget this silly fancy and rejoin your kin.’
‘I shall love whoever I choose to love,’ shouted Florence, racing away. Blossom did not follow – she hoped her friend would, given time, overcome this infatuation.
Yet Florence’s love only grew stronger as the nights grew black and chill, so her parents renewed their pleas.
‘It was all very well to enjoy the summer nights,’ reasoned her mother, ‘but the winter nights will make you ill. Come, rejoin your kin.’
‘We can all see how thin and sad you’ve become,’ exclaimed her father. ‘It is because you’ve isolated yourself for too long. Come, rejoin your kin.’
Although she didn’t heed their calls, Florence knew that she had indeed become thin and sad. While other rabbits happily mated, she lingered in her twilit existence.
Blossom’s fears for her friend had strengthened too. Often she would seek out the newly woken Florence at dusk and lament how little time they shared together anymore.
Still Florence continued in her routine, for she couldn’t bear to sleep in the knowledge that her beloved moon might be waiting outside. Even as the coldest time of year approached, she maintained the nightly ritual.
It was only now that Blossom, tormented by anxiety, visited Florence’s parents and revealed their daughter’s obsession with the moon. ‘This is far worse than we thought,’ they replied, and resolved to confront Florence.
So it occurred that one dawn, as Florence slipped back into her home for a day’s rest, her parents revealed their knowledge and delivered an ultimatum: that Florence must either conform to her family’s expectations or leave the warren forthwith.
‘In that case, I must leave,’ Florence murmured, and did so. Her mother was distraught, and drew little comfort from Father Rabbit’s assertion that Florence would soon return and beg forgiveness.
A week later Florence was still absent from the warren, instead sleeping in quiet forest-holes from day to day, but she was severely weakened by the ordeal.
‘Please, you can stay with my family if necessary,’ begged Blossom after a long day’s searching for her old friend’s hideout. ‘You must come back – your mother cries daily for her loss.’
‘I never wished to cause my family any pain, but I must pursue my love,’ Florence said simply.
Blossom did not tell Florence’s mother of this exchange, for she did not wish to cause the poor lady any more suffering.
One night the snowstorms came, and Florence began to scream at her love: ‘Moon, why won’t you love me? I have given all, yet still you turn away.’ She fell to weeping at the pain of all she’d sacrificed, until a sudden warmth filled her heavy limbs and she exited this world.
Although the rabbits of the warren never knew for sure what became of Florence, her name echoed down the ages as a byword for those whose love put all others to shame, and there were many who claimed the moon never shone so seductively again.
Monday, 2 November 2009
The Little Otter
Whilst walking through thick woodland, a woman heard soft whimpering. She cast her eyes from place to place but could not locate the source of such sorrowful sounds – that was, until she glanced downward and saw an otter knelt upon the ground, face hidden beneath its paws.
‘Little otter,’ she asked, ‘why do you cry?’
Yet the otter did not respond, so the woman repeated her question: ‘Little otter, why do you cry?’
This time the otter raised its head and the woman saw that tears glistened upon its cheeks. ‘Little otter,’ she repeated a third time, ‘why do you cry?’
‘I cry because the leaves fall from the trees. Oh, what sorrow that the leaves should shrivel and die!’
‘But little otter,’ spoke the woman kindly, ‘it is only natural that the leaves should fall from the trees. If these leaves did not die, next year’s leaves could never live. Indeed, if leaves of past years had not fallen in their turn, this year’s crop could never have flourished.’
The otter considered this for a moment, then replied: ‘I shall remember these leaves regardless, and weep for their memory.’
‘Yes, little otter, it is also natural that we should feel sorrow for that which perishes. But we must not let that sorrow consume us, else we could never feel joy at the birth of new leaves.’
The otter wiped its eyes and blinked at the sunlight as if noticing its warm rays for the first time. ‘Thank you, stranger – my sorrow is much lightened by your kind words.’
‘Go forth and be happy, little otter. Think no more of the leaves falling from the trees, except to be glad that one day new leaves shall grow in their place.’
‘Little otter,’ she asked, ‘why do you cry?’
Yet the otter did not respond, so the woman repeated her question: ‘Little otter, why do you cry?’
This time the otter raised its head and the woman saw that tears glistened upon its cheeks. ‘Little otter,’ she repeated a third time, ‘why do you cry?’
‘I cry because the leaves fall from the trees. Oh, what sorrow that the leaves should shrivel and die!’
‘But little otter,’ spoke the woman kindly, ‘it is only natural that the leaves should fall from the trees. If these leaves did not die, next year’s leaves could never live. Indeed, if leaves of past years had not fallen in their turn, this year’s crop could never have flourished.’
The otter considered this for a moment, then replied: ‘I shall remember these leaves regardless, and weep for their memory.’
‘Yes, little otter, it is also natural that we should feel sorrow for that which perishes. But we must not let that sorrow consume us, else we could never feel joy at the birth of new leaves.’
The otter wiped its eyes and blinked at the sunlight as if noticing its warm rays for the first time. ‘Thank you, stranger – my sorrow is much lightened by your kind words.’
‘Go forth and be happy, little otter. Think no more of the leaves falling from the trees, except to be glad that one day new leaves shall grow in their place.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)