The Chronicles of Dolly, part 587.

Dolly Dumpling, the delight of people who don’t have to live with him, was being suspiciously quiet; alarmed, I went to investigate.

The Grey Clan were sitting quietly, having a break from chewing the sideboard, the wooden airer hanging from the ceiling, the bottom of wooden doors and the staircase.

Perhaps they were planning on whether or not to make a hole in the skirting board to make the infrequent visitor afraid that there are rats about, or maybe they were considering the merits of demolishing the rug by the fire, who knows?

Of Dolly there was no sign.

He has adopted a tin teapot recently and carries it everywhere, banging it on the tile floor with every second step, balancing it on his perch at night, or on my knee when he climbs up to see what I am doing and if perhaps I have a drink or sandwich he can help me with. His teapot was in the middle of the floor, abandoned.

Dolly’s house is a large dog crate filled with chewed toys and other detritus of which he is very possessive, this all sits on a table. I can only clean it if he is elsewhere, locked in a room so that he cannot run at me and sit on his doorstep protecting his space.

He has a thick curtain folded on top of his house, which gets pulled down if we are up and he wants to sleep. If I don’t pull his curtain across he screams. When I turn the lights out and go to bed, I usually put his curtain back on top or, you’ve guessed it, he screams. The fact that his curtain was pulled down made me check his house; nope, not in there, so I folded it back on top.

Only when I checked under the table did I see him hanging like a bat, being very quiet as he tried to find his way into the feed bin which is stored there.

The fat pest is now locked in with his breakfast which he has been ignoring because the food bin contains treats. Now that the remains of the butter which he stole yesterday has been locked away from him, the treats were his second choice.

If anyone wants a part-used cockatoo, I can help. He isn’t going cheap though, more probably he’s screaming.

On the unexpected loss of a much loved bird.

Such a personality you have, so much bigger than the sad bundle of feathers I’m holding, barely believing that once it held everything.

First you were here, now you are somewhere else, and although I can feel you I can’t see you.

Well it’s your time to fly into the sunshine and over the forests of your soul’s path; you do not need my tears but my heart needs to release them.

Soon I must put you to bed but not yet, not yet. The waiting earth is so cold.

Ave Maria

Reincarnation? That’s a laugh. Why would anyone come to this godforsaken planet deliberately?”

The young man walked towards the Metro. It was raining, the media screamed of earthquakes, volcanos, war and famine; a tsunami of bad news. He shivered in his thin jacket.

The companion smiled, “Earth is not that bad, you chose this incarnation to learn a specific lesson, you know”.

“My boots are leaking, I’m freezing,” grumbled the other. “If I really were to choose my life, I’d be lying on a beach in paradise surrounded by pretty girls”.

His hippie friend explained that there is beauty everywhere, but you have to open the eyes of your soul to see it.

“Forget what you are being told about the world, all the news and talking points shoved in your face constantly, it’s just psychic cobwebs. It will wrap around you, blind you to what you are actually experiencing. Look around, see what is here, now, in front of you”.

He pointed at a tiny patch of green, a small plant struggling to survive in a crack between pavement and wall.

Ducking into the concourse to escape the rain, the other was already rolling his eyes, opening his mouth with a rebuttal but stopped.

A girl sat at a public piano, playing the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’.

His mother had played it when he was a child and the memory pulled at his heart.

An older woman, bundled up against the cold walked towards the music; putting her bags at her feet she opened her mouth and started to sing.

Her voice, unexpectedly beautiful, soared over the clatter of trains, golden, sublime, and the young man glimpsed understanding.

The song of the robin.

The king woke slowly. Was the sun rising or setting? It was cold, the forest creatures who hunted, lived and died in the half light between day and night were scurrying through damp litter topped with crisp, ice rimed leaves.

His queen slept soundly now and he smiled, covering her pale shoulders with a bearskin.

Raising himself on one arm, he kissed her cheek before springing to his feet. Ancient tattoos, or were they leaves and animals writhing across his skin? A robin, perched atop his ivy wreathed antlers, sang in celebration as the Winter King bellowed in the Solstice.

Chasing Dragonflies.

And lying dreaming

eyes closed memory wide open,

that delicious day of sunlight on teal water over

silver pearled sands.

~

A small boat holding laughing adults, children 

and a dog who tries to drink the water,

sneezing with disgust and shaking his head;

effervescent droplets dancing

in the salt encrusted air.

~

Darkness falls over dunes of marram grasses,

flattened, fragile, against howling winds

stitching shifting, sandy slopes, 

grasping roots holding against oceanic fury 

until silence whispers in the watery moonlight.

~

A hissing surf caressing weed entangled

boulders

where a seal sings to the stars,

glowing phosphorescent trails across indigo

heavens.

~

A smell of salt and herring and creels and nets,

low white cottages with lines

strung with washing and gossip

blowing in a wind

sharp with fractured fragments of shells;

and lives of hardness,

of beauty,

always the wind

always the beauty.

~

The pain of standing shore bound,

hopeless eyes scouring the restless waters

rolling a brother a husband a son

against the broken spars,

the broken hearts,

the broken families,

the seabirds overhead

crying, crying, crying.

~

Waiting impatiently for the nurse with the

needle,

eyes sealed to the cold electric glare;

hushed voices impatient to be gone

back to rain washed streets,

to dull stuffy rooms,

to dull stuffy lives.

~

Five years old

I race in the field behind the cottage

dwarfed by a vast sky,

chasing dragonflies.

Writing rocks.

I tried to write a short piece about rocks.

I prepared by putting some on my desk and observing them.

Rocks don’t move much in captivity but they beg to be picked up,

Examined and fondled; ooer.

~

Next I pick up a black light,

Play it over curves and fractures.

I admire the shimmer of fluorite,

The glow of a hidden garnet,

The unexpected calcite

Burrowing into a crack in a mudstone shard.

~

It is hard to write when you suspect an ammonite is hiding it’s nacre

In a rock which looks like a potato,

So I put the rocks on a shelf

And take a walk.

~

Outside the air is fresh and clean

I try to compose a narrative;

Inspired words, lofty phrases,

To dazzle folk with my wordsmithery.

~

Head in the clouds I trip on a stone.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Do you need rescuing?”

I admire the slippery smoothness of the common chert

And slip it in my pocket.

For Olivia.

Oh my beautiful daughter with your frail shoulders,

With your courage and grace;

You fall and fall and fall.

I will not say that things will get better

Because I do not know the truth of that

Though I believe it will be so.

I know that you are struggling in the darkness

And I know that you will make your own candle,

Because that is what we do;

All of the mothers

And all of the daughters.

The Suicide Pigeons.

The suicide pigeons stand outside the school

Puffed up chests, tails dropped,

Bowing, cooing,

Guarding the speed bumps with their fragile bodies,

Daring the cars to move over them.

~

The suicide pigeons strut boldly,

Pecking at fenders,

Jumping on bonnets,

Peering through windscreens.

~

The suicide pigeons play chicken.

Walking towards wheels, under them.

Dusty rubber careens to a sudden halt

As they nonchalantly flutter sideways.

~

Feathers tumbling, spinning,

The owners grinning, unharmed.

The suicide pigeons survive.

~

They eat crisps and scattered cake crumbs

From lunch boxes and Greggs bags.

They fly to the eaves calling softly

To our children,

To their children.

~

White deposits on the roof of a polished Mini,

The driver hasn’t paid the sausage roll tax.

~

The suicide pigeons glow,

Their neck plumage iridescent in the afternoon sun.

Our urban companions

So common they are invisible;

We will miss them when they are gone.