The Stuff that Happens in Graveyards...
One of the most amazing, surreal things things happened today, when I was visiting the Holy Trinity Church graveyard in Stratford-upon-Avon. I was busy taking a photograph of a beautiful Victorian tombstone, when a little boy (probably aged somehwere between 4 and 6) ran to a tombstone nearby, kneeled in front of it, then started to kind of 'shake' the thing and yell at it, saying: 'Wake up, dude! Why don't you wake up? Don't you know you're supposed to wake up one day? Why don't you wake up now? Wake up!' Then he started to brush away with his little fingers the dirt and soil deposited on the tombstone over the years. He kept at it until his parents - who weren't really paying attention to what the kid was doing - called him away. And even then he kept looking back.
I just thought this was extremely fascinating, and I had to share it with the world. And now, I'll just pop my last NaPoWriMo poem. Which is also - appropriately enough, methinks - kind of 'final' in theme and tone.
Too Late, too Early
by Kalyiel
Out of the mist, you held out your hand,
Reached to me, beckoned me to follow.
So I followed, followed to the bottom
Of each glass of wine, where blue pearls
Grow on shrivelled lambskin scrolls.
I followed to the peak of the sky,
Where angels still fight for the love of God.
I followed to the Gardens of Hell,
Where mad or intoxicated painters
Transmute their hands into paintbrushes
And draw flame circles around themselves.
I followed you home. But I stopped
In front of your door and there
I let you go. I let you go, although
Your hand, from the mist, was still
Beckoning. 'Farewell,' I said, 'I've walked
You home, but now it's getting late.
I can't stay overnight. But I promise,
I promise I'll see you in the morning.'
I just thought this was extremely fascinating, and I had to share it with the world. And now, I'll just pop my last NaPoWriMo poem. Which is also - appropriately enough, methinks - kind of 'final' in theme and tone.
Too Late, too Early
by Kalyiel
Out of the mist, you held out your hand,
Reached to me, beckoned me to follow.
So I followed, followed to the bottom
Of each glass of wine, where blue pearls
Grow on shrivelled lambskin scrolls.
I followed to the peak of the sky,
Where angels still fight for the love of God.
I followed to the Gardens of Hell,
Where mad or intoxicated painters
Transmute their hands into paintbrushes
And draw flame circles around themselves.
I followed you home. But I stopped
In front of your door and there
I let you go. I let you go, although
Your hand, from the mist, was still
Beckoning. 'Farewell,' I said, 'I've walked
You home, but now it's getting late.
I can't stay overnight. But I promise,
I promise I'll see you in the morning.'