365 Ways With Words

The Barker

Above the noisy cicadas and comfy crickets, a lone rasping voice punctuated the stillness of the hot night. Every now and then it spouted unusual words.

“Step inside! Step inside!”

Above the tent’s curving lines sailed two flags, each upon the large uprights from which the canvas was suspended. Upwardly illuminated from the glowing lights inside the ring where the action would later take place, these flags had on them the words ‘Circus’ and ‘Vita’, something that could only be observed when a lazy wind took them one way or another.

“This way, ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin.”

From villages and farms all around, the people drove, cycled and even walked to this show—the only one some had ever seen. The carnival had only yesterday passed through the biggest town in the region, an event of great wonder in itself. This had guaranteed the interest of all but the most intransigent of religious belligerents, of which it must be said there was a sizeable minority. Their response was a dour all-night prayer meeting followed by a daily vigil outside the town hall at noon to demonstrate in no uncertain terms that the good Lord wouldn’t countenance such evil.

“What’s your pleasure? What’s your delight?”

It was, for many, a first time of seeing an elephant beyond the pages of a children’s textbook. No one could ever remember bears and fearsome lions on Main Street. Such exotica confirmed in the hearts of many that the town was rapidly growing and becoming a source of increased revenue for locals and an attractor for visitors such as these. The outside world, with all its influences, was walking through the heart of the town. For most, the slow trickle of hard-working immigrants from back East were welcomed fairly, but strangers such as these carnies and circus types, as alien as the animals themselves, were watched with guarded eyes.

“See the spectacles! Take in the treats! All for your very own performance, ladies and gentlemen.”

The carnival procession that Friday took place after the big top had been set up and the nearby wagons and cages formed into a defensive tabor formation. The uniformed brass band played marches and waltzes as the lengthy parade twirled, sparkled and waved at the dazzled and dozy citizens wholly unused to such visions of razzle-dazzle. Leading them all, and holding tightly the hand of the trapeze artist’s young girl, herself bedecked in spangles and waving the stars and stripes, was the Barker, owner of the circus and commander of his troop and all that went on from day to day.

“Be amazed at the audacity of the magnificent Periculum family as they defy death swinging on the high trapeze. Be stunned at the strength of Robustus, the strongest man alive!”

From outside, the circus seemed to epitomize the very weirdness of human life that existed elsewhere: dwarf acrobats and giant strongmen, stupid clowns and mysterious magicians, beautiful girls baring their stockinged legs on horseback, and terrifying wild animals tamed by man. And it worked, for ticket numbers for each show for the following week were near capacity, the lamplit rows filled with the good and the bad, the quick and the slow, the young and the old.

“And now… for your pleasure and entertainment… the Sollievo Brothers!”

From behind the long red curtains emerged a little car driven at ridiculous speed and from which protruded feet, gloved hands, an outlandish head and loud shiny costumes. It came to a noisy stop and each clown tumbled from a window at once ready to perform. Their first routine encouraged warmth from the audience through the usual tumbling slapstick and interaction. At the peak of an approving roar of laughter, the curtain opened once again to reveal a cycling bear dressed in a little clown costume of his own and making his way towards them. Showing exaggerated panic, each clown leaped into the air, gathered their discarded props and made a run for it through the audience. The bear circled the ring, lightly sniffing the air, but after two circuits followed the clowns’ car being towed backstage.

“Circus Vita is the best circus in the world!”

The progression of acts –dangerous animals, fire-eaters and crack-shots, stylish acrobats and trapeze artists, clowns, perilous skilled horsemen and women– had their moment within the ring; that warmly-illuminated central arena. The country audience, enthusiastic and amazed, smiled, cheered, clapped, and held their breathing at appropriate moments. From the side, the Barker, the mature announcer who knew the show moment by moment, made keen eye movements on all activities. The routines had been endlessly practiced, the animals cautiously trained, the audience watched for undesirables and attention-seekers that might disturb the show. Once in every ten minutes or so, he would bend over to whisper something to one of the stagehands wearing black that were partially hidden behind the curtain. They would run around the back of the band and leave the show in order to carry a message or perform some task.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honour to introduce the entire cast. Give them all a big hand!”

The band struck up a triumphal march as each act returned in a procession around the ring; by now every man in the audience had his favourite and every woman eyed her attractor. The children’s tired late-evening attentions were engaged with a tiger cub carried by a beautiful girl who let some of the front row hands stroke the poor animal’s back and tail.

“That’s the end of the show, ladies and gentlemen. You’ve been magnificent! Be sure to visit Circus Vita next time we pass this way!”

For days children would return to the field within which the circus had camped, tracing out the perimeter of the big top by the large tent peg holes, the circular patch of sawdust of the ring, and the indentations left by the lions’ and bear’s cages. Even the massive dried elephant dung was kicked over with delight. Eventually, even these pleasures were to fade, and other regular attractions were discovered in the usual environment, but the remnant of the circus was the spectacle that fed the imagination. That humans could do this, instead of farming, instead of going to work in the city, proved that life could be exciting. Some children wanted to be the horsemen, swift and daring, others the lion tamers and clowns and even those that risked life daily on the trapeze, but all agreed that to be the Barker, the owner and director of the whole show would be the grandest job of all.

Butterfly Heart

In the river’s course scoured deep through summer torrents, beneath the canopy and beyond the screen of bamboo, upon the bend where the afternoon light settles before the sun falls below the crest of the mountains above, the scene is played. The butterfly rests, its wings open, quiet, alone, in Lepidoptera meditation. 

The existence of one life amongst a myriad of forms is nothing unusual, even one so bright. And in this present, in this capture of time and place, the butterfly is at once without need and without being needed; it feels the satisfaction of hourless eternity, the successful connections of a billion genetic computations, the generous confluence of a sympathetic location with benevolent season, and can only be content.

It neither trusts, nor is cautious. Without a grasp, the hand reaches to support this moment of significance. And without a worry, the butterfly is at ease within the palm and on the fingertips. She dances, she stops, she turns, she closes her wings then reopens: there is no fear in the communication, for an open soul receives without hindrance or demand.

This is enough for both butterfly and hand. The gentle occasion over, the hand replaces her again to rest on to the warm rock face, safe within the glow of a golden sunbeam. Separated, each is happy with the exchange of time and consideration, fully respectful of the other. Of such honoured connections, there are precious few. They are the devout unions of separate souls.

The Smell

I loved the smell of the old Cramphorns, Chelmsford; a big barn of a structure that existed years ago. Going there with my father on some errand or other, the very air would be full of heavy animal feed, so strong it would stay on your clothes until home.

I loved the overpowering smell of tomatoes that grew in the enormous old greenhouse that leant against the high wall at my grandparent’s. The dusky fruit would be sold at Broomfield Stores, along with everything else necessary for life.

I loved the sticky smell of the Underground, waiting on the platform for the breeze to indicate the next train to tumble through. The grime and grease and dirt and electricity on the tracks below amalgamated into a open working mechanical pit.

I loved the rich smell of the Spaghetti House Italian restaurant on Duke Street, full of garlic and basil. Saturday lunchtimes would sometimes be spent here with my mother, just she and I, as we carefully selected from the menu amidst the tang of rich Italian wine, Parmesan and ravioli.

I loved the satisfying smell of the mid-summer meadows, the cut grass ferment and the shaded hedgerow damp, the dry fields and skylarks. My only partners in the sweated walk along Lydiate Lane to the vantage point above Lynton, would be the lazing cows and sheep.

I love the rickety, seaweed smell of the large pebbles on Dungeness. Mixed with their squawk and rub that jarred on the long windy walk along the coast, would be the occasional rotten crab, fly-blown fish and seagull dropping.

I loved the air-still smell of wood smoke lazily ascending from the winter chimneys in the Weald. Some came from the old Hawkhurst house of us newlyweds kept warm by wet logs fresh cut that took an age to burn.

I loved the deep green smell of the River Weaver on the long walk round, full of rush and pike and weed. Brought home on the dogs’ wet coats, the wetness filled the house for a day and a half with a canine intensity, in time for a return visit.

I loved the clean smell of after-bath babies, wrapped in warm towels and drying hair. Only an hour before bedtime, the evening was a care-full snuggling, all kisses and love until sleep overwhelmed.

The Archeans

Strong winds crossed the plains down from the mountains whipping up little wavelets on the surface of the pond. The inhabitants failed to notice this. The inhabitants failed to notice much at all, other than the regular violent drop in temperature which coincided with the complete absence of any sunlight for six hours in every twenty-three. And this meant only that their activities would temporarily slow or even stop. As their functions were basic and required very little in terms of input other than H₂O and sunlight, this pond life was a brief and slow one, reflecting the microbial capacity for life in terms of elementary respiration, absorption, metabolism, excretion, transportation, reproduction and growth. Their presence obviated the adaptation that had occurred in the relatively distant past, but it had not been seen for countless generations, not since those first, mysterious pioneers were forced onto the surface of a hot and intensely hostile planet.

It must be said that the inhabitants of each pond or lake reacted differently to their particular environment. In pools higher in the poisonous atmosphere the extremes would become almost unliveable and only the hardiest could hang on to life. For some, it was simply too much and the cumulative effect of constantly high daytime UV and intense heat and evaporating water would eliminate these poor brave creatures and so eternally end their unique combinations of DNA.

For others it was easier. Warmer seas allowed for rapid multiplication, particularly at the coastal fringes where waves embraced the gathered Archeans in their strange column-like communities, refreshing them with waters that softened their crimson, greenish and blue forms. A big glowing moon in a cloudless cold night sky bore harsh white streams of light onto shimmering black wavelets. Such was life – the only voice the wind and sea, the only art the creatures’ myriad hues.

Respiration through their thin membranes meant the transfusion of the abundance of atmospheric carbon dioxide necessary for the process. Minerals were suspended in the waters as were the necessary simple proteins and carbohydrate-forming elements. Wastes simply accumulated until the light rains or tidal rushes washed them away, luckily before accumulating to toxic levels.

Transportation took a very long time coming: being generally assisted by micro-currents generated from the wind and sunlight. But there was no need for movement. Only during the heavy rains, when pools overflowed, would some came in and others leave, the remnant mixture becoming at the same time both enriched and depleted. The newly-introduced genes would make their delicate alterations to form, life-cycle, and capacity, mostly for the better. Occasionally a retroactive gene would instil retroactive forms, but DNA being what it is, their genetic strength existed in competition, and would eventually be subsumed.

All during their lifetime an oxygen vapour would emanate from them through tiny bubbles underwater or by freely passing out in drier conditions. Generation after generation would pour more and more, incrementally turning the day sky bluer by imperceptible degrees.

These organisms, whose lives at most spanned days alone, could not perceive their cumulative impact upon their planet. Neither could they have been aware of the multi-trillion genetic permutations which occurred in each reproductive wave; permutations which permitted mutations and others which fixed them. In turn, a world of only one type of creature would inevitably one day allow for two, three and even more, each in their separate zones wherein they thrived and divided and changed again. Droughts, floods, meteoric and even cometary impacts and other cataclysms inevitably killed many, but also prompted and accelerated these changes to newer forms.

The Achaeans may have been the simplest and the first of all forms of life, but they also happened to be the longest surviving. They are mankind’s planet-changing ancestors. What had taken millions of years to achieve, unaided and alone, would be later done in less than two by the largely unseen mechanical processes of their monkey-like descendants, a eon-length natural marvel reduced by mundane economic necessity to measured moments before colonisation and profits.

Elephant Attack

The mood was up —a good deal of training and the resultant fitness had emboldened them all. The 5,000 men had sung songs and played drums through much of the night and the party-like atmosphere continued until the first long rays of the sun broke through the smoky gloom of the mountain camp. Beneath them a host of angelic birdsong echoed down each dark green valley and a clear tumbling brook cascaded between the primal tumbling rock pools.

It was then, in the dawn’s light, that the beautiful Prince Vyankoji rode haughtily upon his chestnut Arab gelding; small-headed and elegant, it was the epitome of grace. Silent and regal, he momentarily glanced to his left and right, settling on each of his awe-struck jawan’s young faces. He permitted no response to each loudly hailed greeting: his control was to be respected. Pace-by-pace and tent-by-tent he finally began to feel the weight of command assuredly upon his young shoulders. His time was coming. It was here and now. Other men stood to attention where they were, irresistibly resting their widening eyes on his bejewelled coronet with its’ over-sized majestic plume, his finely polished armour and beneath that his sky blue silken bodice. Even the bronzed leather saddle gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun. He felt each gaze, even on the back of his head, and finally turned. With slow measured words he commanded them to break camp and leave, for today was the day they would in all probability bravely meet with glory.

As the morning brightened they moved onwards through the forested hills, the sticky heat rising hour by hour. After midday they were snaking upwards over the last pass through the ghat that would eventually give them access to the main road from Bengalaru. Downwards they weaved until the land was sufficiently level and they could look out upon the long plain. At last when the path ran through a sufficiently darkened glade at the dry flattened bottom of a valley Vyankoji called a halt and ordered that his three good scouts be sent out. He regarded the over-noisy scene with what he felt to be soldierly pleasure—his men had made good sturdy progress and were weary. Nevertheless, he believed they were now in a much stronger position from which they could begin inflicting their stings, make a difference, and increase his martial reputation—a reputation which must always be compared with that of his glorious father Shahaji Bhosale, or even that of his illustrious brothers. Vyankoji could not know that sooner than he expected he would meet the men of one of these brothers, Shivaji, and that they would have with them a dozen elephants.

As each of the little cooking fires rose swirling into the mid-afternoon hillsides his men took on the appearance of the rested. They had all expected –even desired– rain from the cloudy skies but instead the winds had picked up from the south and brought with them gentle cooling relief: the lowering sunbeams began to pierce through the smoky canopy and all around them the trees began to gently bend. Beyond the camp’s perimeter the fallen leaves swirled their circular dances upon the sun-hardened earth. Perhaps this spooked the horses, for they were leaving their fodder. Sensing unease, Vyankoji arose and without assistance adjusted his harnesses and saddle. At the same time he called out over his shoulder for orders to be sent out for his men to break camp and continue their advance. One of his already mounted daffadars walked his horse over to him and leant over to hold the Prince’s horses’ reins begging a word: surely this place was a relatively good defensive position? The scouts had yet to return, the day was late and the men were now weary. The Prince smiled, as if to a child. His orders had been issued, and now they should be carried out.

A small pop of thunder rang across the forested scene, followed by an indistinct shout, then a louder panicked scream, the resonance of which filled each unquiet ear. All stood and turned in its’ direction, the playful leafy edge of the camp. A short and shoeless dark Kerelan jawan jauntily ran shouting and wildly gesticulating through the gloom. He had a purple stain of splattered blood on his white tunic from just above his right hip. No-one understood his ranting. It was then that the first distant elephant trumpeting rang through the trees: they had been expected!

Vyankoji looked angrily at the daffadar—where of his scouts? How had they been discovered? He jumped up into the saddle and for the first time shouted orders directly to his men—pikemen to the front, musketeers to the trees, daffadars and risaldars with him!

The official subedars and sergeant-like havildars barked commands, and the hurried soldiery made a chaotic assembly under the crack and whisper of incoming bullets. Dust swirled excitedly with the woodsmoke as feet rushed to make ready in the direction of the oncoming commotion. Vyankoji tried to keep control of what was already looking like a helpless situation and a catastrophic scene: his was always to have been a prolonged hit and run guerrilla campaign. A pitched battle was the last thing he anticipated.

The horsemen looked to him—would he take them right or left? For the moment he couldn’t move, finding himself still worrying that his scouts had still not returned. Shaking his head, he knew a rousing speech was what they needed, but at the moment he opened his mouth to utter the first words a piercing elephants’ trumpeting soared across the treetops: they were upon him now, right there in the trees. His skittery horse buckled fearfully under him. He drew his curved sword and waved it above his head, but no one was looking at him. He barked the nearest havildar: If they could hold a line long enough for the gunners to pick off the mahoots then they might stand a chance…

A pair of polished tusks glimmered in the evening light of the forest—each gold-tipped and aggressively waving left and right. They were attached to the large lead elephant that thirstily ran towards the quivering assembly of jawans hurriedly drawn-up to meet and challenge this force of nature. Nothing but deep almost uncontrollable fear filled each wide eye, their subadars’ brave and harsh words doing little to keep them from running. Nevertheless, the lances and barchis all faced forward. In the trees beside their flanks a tirade of sporadic musket fire broke in echoing black clouds, but the rounded bullets all-but bounced wildly on the beast’s flanked side plate armour. And then they had to re-load.

These were the most fierce war elephants—savage beasts that had learned to enjoy many a fight with men and horse. They all-but ignored the booms and the punchy impact from bullets on their sides and kept their war step. The relentless charge continued towards the mass of men, rapidly closing the 100 yards gap between them within seconds. In the front line the weaving pikes pointed tremulously towards the nearest elephant, the apposite of a reversed porcupine. Their training made their actions effortless, but at this very moment an unspoken realisation spread amongst them that it was all untested. At the last step when finally breaking on the pikes, the massive beasts instinctively raised their heads to grasp the wooden staves with their serpentine trunks, several at a time, yanking the sharpened points to the side beyond the withering grip of the terrified men. Thus, the dreadful stabbing bronze tusks forcefully plunged downwards onto the terrified men. Swiftly shaking their heads, they began scything down the men, the noisy mahoots angrily urging them on and on. Beneath the glistening silvery armour, the sheer mass of their gray muscled bulk could not be halted.

Now all those standing turned and fled over the underbrush in every direction. Those trapped at the front were mercilessly trampled down; crushed mercilessly, stabbed through, torn to pieces. Some of the gunners caught hold of those on the run, but blind panic meant most could not think of standing ground or surrender.

Irregular cracks and booms from shots rang out through the hillsides. From the intense roaring of men and beast Vyankoji knew they were now at close quarters. He could see little at the front, but assumed from the smoke where his own musket men were standing. But the more he looked on, the less clear it seemed.

Sensing the attention of the sharpshooters, he turned his horse and headed towards the thicker forest, his devoted horsemen following behind. The Arab had just broken gallop when it stumbled mid-stride from the impact of a musket ball. It crumpled, catapulting him towards the leafy dust. The cracks from the guns caught up with their discharges and he turned quickly to see his beautiful horse mid-somersault in the air over him, its’ beautiful brown eye blown through. And then the broad back, saddle pommel sticking out like a bizarre vertebrae, landed heavily upon him, forever squeezing the entire breath from his lungs and the hope that all had invested in him

Without

The waitress forgets to bring my order. I am furious: she's wasted my time. I've been sitting in this dump of a café staring at the wall for 20 minutes. How dare she use up my day like this?

The train is late. I cannot meet my client at the restaurant at the appointed time. They will think I am insincere and do not want the deal. How can I be expected to do business in his country if the damned trains don't run on time?

There are imperfections in the batch. It turns out the filter was contaminated: someone didn't clean it properly last time. This sample took three weeks to prepare – isolating, purifying, desiccating, analysing... How in God's name am I supposed to get the work done if incompetent buffoons work here?

It turns out the match was fixed! Twenty thousand people turned up to watch the final, but the truth of it is that the score was settled weeks ago. That's the problem with sport these days; there's no fair play anymore. How can you have faith in the teams and players when there's always someone pulling the strings in the background?

The political ambitions of his deputy head were notorious. He just wouldn't do anything without an eye on advancement, on reciprocal actions, on curating a selection of favours to later call on. Some of the parents and governors saw it, but chose to live with it: how could they let children through the gates with such a Machiavellian beast daily working his machinations?

The behaviour of the corporation towards the environment was beginning to bother some of the shareholders. They had been with the company for more than twenty years and believed in it, but recent reports from the River Authority made for alarming reading. They feared a whistleblower, negative press and a drop in share price. But how could they change things in the current economic climate?

The tanks were still on the street, but they needed bread. Before she could do anything about it, Abdul had grabbed the money from the pot beside the door and run out of the gate towards the little bakery on the corner. She called out, but he was long out of earshot. How could she hold together a family in a situation like this?

The landing craft sloughed to a standstill in three feet of choppy seawater: the first out received the bullets –ripping through their clothes, webbing, helmets, to sink deep into their flesh– and they fell backwards and forwards and into the waves. Instinctively he followed, ignoring the gantry he jumped into the bloody water to take perilous cover from the strafing of the machine gun post high on top of the sand. But there was a clear 100 yards of empty beach to run before any possible fighting could take place. The bastards sat up there with pure murderous intent, showing not one little ounce of mercy: if he left the water and the protective flotation of corpses there would be no hiding from it. How could any human survive this? He would never again complain about late buses, the boss's last-minute demands, the weather, or anything, for he now faced death here on Juno Beach.

May Snow

It's Maytime and the weather is now fine – glorious full sun days that ought to be spent with pleasant company in the park, by the river, at the lido. Of course, most of the poor souls not in further education or enjoying self-employment cannot afford to drop the reins just to enjoy a spot of loitering in public places (unless they throw a 'sicky'). But for the lucky free ones, these days are so good that they really must be enjoyed to the full. Within the parks clusters of merry students have sprung up, each gathered around a guitarist, or some other attractor, a bottle or two of best Moravian red at their disposal. These will be the best days of their life, and should not be begrudged.

Elsewhere in the sun-baked fields and beside the muddy rivers grow the poplars and willows, the hallmarks of the European countryside. Their wispy seeds are taken by the wind and cast in sleety clouds across the landscape, lying like summer snow upon the grass, collecting in vast clumps as drifts. These soft forms – so light – take fairy flight, but find their wafted ways to clothes, hair and nose.

May snow, so far from season, falls like the broken heart, blown left and right by winds beyond its power. Filling the lows of the landscape, it clogs the simpering pathways for a time, but, who knows, perhaps after the deluge it will be gone.

The State of Things

The stranger sits quietly in the waiting room of the doctors. It is his first time. Fully in focus, he does not read the donated magazines, neither does he observe the people to his left and right. He merely waits.

Moving in good time to the beat, the smiling girl grooves like she has never grooved before. She is neither aware, nor unaware, of those all around her. She merely dances.

The black cat runs furiously around the house in a state of tail-high excitement. He jumps from sofa to tabletop. He lets his paws feel the textured surfaces, but does nothing to notice them. He merely scampers.

Within the window box the geranium grows slowly in a late spring cold snap. It is blown backwards and forwards with the wind, but responds most to the sunlight. It merely prepares to bloom.

The chattery starling sits on the rail observing people in the park. He is hungry, but watches the noisy lunchtimers eat their sandwiches and cakes without approaching or fleeing. He merely pays attention.

Depending on the time of day, the clouds part to reveal sun, moon or stars. Each one follows its trajectory across the firmament, neither deviating nor staying put. Each merely shines.

God sits in his heaven, a useful metaphor and the signature of alignment. Impossible and possible, being, but not acting according to our understandings, God neither descends nor ascends. God is God.

"Harmonizing opposites by going back to their source is the distinctive quality of the Zen attitude, the Middle Way: embracing contradictions, making a synthesis of them, achieving balance."        Taisen Deshimaru

Waiting for the Bomb to Drop

The basement huddle watched the light bulb. Quite why, nobody had worked out. Perhaps, it was supposed, if the big one fell, then power would go first: through this small light came comfort, continuity, meaning and answers.

Limbs tight, they held each other like monkeys, helpless humans on the conveyor of a terrible history not of their making. Revolutions come and go, governments rise and fall, but the little people would have to content themselves with watching – and that was all of them huddled in groups on the floor, like so many Henry Moore underground figures.

Above the breathing, all that could be heard this far down was the tiny ticking of a watch. No one could quite place it. Each minute was a stretch of nothingness, the sort of nothingness that prickles the hairs on necks, the goosebumps on arms.

None of them had eaten; none wanted to. The desire to live, to see blue sky and stars, to experience long green grass and curtained evening views, to feel the sea's wavelets break over sandy toes with a warm hand to hold, all of these were implicit in the next breath. And the next. But they said nothing, their mouths closed, and stared on.

Ears pierced the still – no sound came, no voices hurt. Hours moved them on to another place. One by one, tension overwhelmed nervousness. Or was it oxygen levels? Heads fell against arms and sweated palms dried. Surely they would have heard it. Surely it would have a devastation beyond their comprehension.

But the security of a silent room –a fragile womb, a temporary cheerless home– held them together in silence and slim hope. Panic, that all-devouring drugness, brought them inside, made them lock the gate and bar the entranceways. So keen were they to get in, none of them considered getting out. Here, right here, was the only world. A safe Pompeii tomb of their own making.

One by one, they emerged from internal reveries, unwilling to speak within the churched confines of this hallowed space. A short whisper captured all attentions, a shuffled discomfort drew seeking eyes. The doorway loomed in the bare glare; a monolith of the unknown, the terrors beyond. No one wanted it opened, to see it touched – the very idea! They had to persevere with their little universe; an eternal moment of now. Theirs would be a night and day without end. Their stifling totality, the existance of the little people, would be forever. No one would change it.

Spring Has Sprung

So finally, between rain-soaked days and bright gusty mornings, a change is happening. The mantel with which the natural world is overspread is definitely, and daily, switching hue: spring is here. Sap is rising, flowers have risen, grass is verdant, birds are nesting, and out in the fields hares are jumping like mini-deer – and the dogs go berserk!

The darling buds of March, plum and wild cherry, such negligible and incidental things in the eyes of many, are beginning their slow burst, breaking winter's back with the happy strength of sunlight. Calyx of catkins are dropping to reveal the green bottle brush thrust – a shameless sexual move. Under the feet the grass roots are taking up where they left before the snows and new green –bright delicious sensual green– is filling flawless leaves that tremble in fresh breezes.

Rivers are high and muddy, full of old branches swiftly taken down to the swollen lakes and beyond. Even the cloying clumps of pathway mud have a different smell – alive again to greet the new blue of the year. From out of such is growing violets, their colours stunningly free.

Now, apart from the poor slave-driven bees, only the red firebugs are out, mindlessly mating as they colonise even more, but within days the hungry ladybirds, dozy caterpillars and gadding mayflies will show themselves: a boon for the blue tits, their presence welcomed as the necessary linchpin in the wheel of life.

And what do we humans do? We graffiti the trees!