Ellen turned to a page of her exercise book that showed a neatly written poem, and cleared her throat.
The blue sky beyond my window
Beckons with blind promises
Green trees seduced by the summons
Rustle praise in the breeze
I consider the bounds of infinity
and children in the Square
Their voices spiral upwards
their games the whole world
I smile at my fancies
And savour the childsong
The blue sky beckons
Only dreams its intent
“Oh! That’s lovely,” Greçia said. “I would never think of writing anything like that.”
Müther sipped at the pendle Richard had poured into her special mug. “The imagery is crafted. But – I am curious. Why did you not read the poem you were working on?”
Richard dropped his head into his hands with a soft moan, but Ellen grinned, wondering how Müther knew.
“Alright,” she said. “I will read you that poem – though you will wonder at it because it makes no sense.” She flipped through her exercise book until she came to pages that were a mess of crossed out and inserted words. Bits of eraser rubber rolled off the paper as she smoothed the binding open. She tucked her hands under her thighs – in spite of herself, she always became nervous when reciting lines she had created but was unsure about – leant over her book and began to read.
I walked the stone-strewn road,
Dust over the toes
Of my shiny shoes.
Around me the field of green
Glowed
And on it walked the three.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Oh,” my companion replied.
“They are the immortals.”
Gabriel, The Whale
And one without a name.
There and known
But forgotten.
They walked
The Three
To the grand old house.
Their countenance radiant.
In the doorway they paused.
Gabriel said: “There is wrong here!”
To the depths they hastened.
Gabriel’s wings swept the air.
Before them
A brook with clear, singing waters
In which the children played.
Among them a man rose
As the three approached.
He ran.
They at his heels.
Pursuit.
On and on.
Not frantic.
Just behind.
A journey.
Gabriel strode strong,
Body noble, face pure.
The Whale effeminate,
Soft and kind.
“Do you remember being born?”
The One Without a Name asked.
“I do,” said Gabriel. “A cloud, born in the sky.”
“And you, Whale? Do you remember?”
The Whale looked wistful.
Gabriel laughed.
“The Whale is old,” he said.
“Birth is no longer a memory.”
“I long to be born,” said
The One Without a Name
The words murmured with yearning.
Before them the pursued mounted stairs
That receded as he climbed.
And he?
He turned white.
Ethereal.
To disappear on the final step.
They followed.
They knew.
It was an end.
Or a beginning.
To freeze on the final step.
“We are in a picture.”
It was The Whale who spoke,
as she gazed out.
Eyes liquid.
Empathetic.
The One Without a Name saw
Before them sat a woman.
A baby at her breast.
Her brown head bent in love.
The child her world.
Otherwise alone.
Lonely.
She turned her face.
Raised her eyes.
She saw
The One.
“When she dies I’ll have her name.”
The thought was sad.
For birth a death.
My shoes are shiny
Under the dust.
The fields around me verdant.
And this?
This is a dream.
Ellen closed her book and slid it into her bag.
Silence.
She wallowed to try to ease her nervousness, hoping her heartbeat had not sounded in her voice. Well, she thought as she picked up a biscuit and dunked it in her pendle, I knew they’d think it was strange. It is strange. It was just a funny dream I had last night. Sometimes I like to write about my dreams. Maybe one day I will write something about that woman with the child. And maybe I’ll write about how sad the one without a name is. I just like to record some of my dreams in poems.
“How did you come by that poem?” Müther asked at last.
“It was a dream. Like it says –”
Outside the persistent sound of wind was drowned by a deep roar that shook windows and furniture. In the adjoining grotto, Phan, the goats and the chickens began to bawl and screech loudly. The four at the kitchen table held their breath, all movement frozen. Slowly, the roar faded. Before anyone could relax, sound exploded again into the room. Phan hurtled through the doorway, his arms over his head. He looked around wildly then threw himself at Richard clutching hold of him, whimpering pathetically.
Phan was followed by a stampede of goats.
Greçia and Ellen jumped up to herd the goats out of the living area and back into their pens.
“Its only an avalanche, Phan,” Richard told the frightened man, patting him placatingly on his broad back. “Come on. We have to get the goats out of here. They will make a mess.”
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