vitality. You couldn’t bottle it, you couldn’t wipe it off your brow. For the smell that filled my very being was that of the four elements of our universe sweating, oozing from every atom and every molecule. Frame that and hang it on your wall.
I waited. But I didn’t have to wait for too long.
A man approached me. He wore a long coat that came down to the tattered material that covered his feet. His head was bare save for a few wisps of grey and his whole face was dominated by veined, ruddy cheeks. A huge white moustache sprang from below his nose and reached down almost to his hefty jowls. Though his head was bowed as he came towards me, I somehow sensed he was smiling. And when he was but an arm's length from me, he lifted his head and looked into my eyes. I was right. What a smile!
"Hello, lad,” he said, taking my arm. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?” I asked, as he led me on.
“I am The Walrus," he replied. He bade me wait as he retrieved a wooden rocking chair from the barn. I sat upon it and rocked slowly, back and forth. Or maybe I was still and it was the sky and the earth that were rocking.
The Walrus winked at me and headed back to the barn.
“Come on children!” he shouted, pulling open two large wooden doors. “The time has come!”
And as The Walrus spoke, nine children sprung out into view. They were grubby and ragged and blinking in the daylight. I knew not for how long they had been awaiting my arrival. It all seemed so surreal even then. Oh but I did not know what was to come. I had no idea how surreal it would all get. The children were each carrying a square bale of hay as they trotted out and lined up in front of me. They placed their bale upon the ground before them and awaited further instruction from their leader. The Walrus exuded such pride and the children literally shook with anticipation.
And my life was at a standstill just exactly when it needed to be so.
There they were, nine children standing behind nine bales of hay, all in a line before me, the old barn in the background. All was still as the heavens took a photograph.
“Being for the benefit of Mr Keats, there will be a show tonight! Of Beauty and Truth and Truth and Beauty!” proclaimed The Walrus. “Well, off you go children!”
The first child in the line picked up his bale of hay and stepped a couple of paces towards me. This was truly his big moment. It was all their big moment. I stopped rocking, comforting though it was, and leaned forward, bewitched.
“My name is John,” said the boy. “And I have a tale for you.”
The other children sat down, cross-legged and looked at me. I had eyes only for John.
“There once was a poor farmer who lived alone since the death of his wife and child. He had just one field in which he grew carrots and onions and potatoes. He tilled the land and toiled from dawn until nightfall growing his own food from the soil. And each evening he would sleep upon his straw bed pleading for the dark night to take him in peace to the loved ones he had lost so long ago. He refused to join them of his own free will for his love of life far outweighed his fear of death. Though life be hard, it be life after all.
One night as the poor farmer was about to eat his soup, a soup made from the carrots, onions and potatoes of the field, the old wooden door of his home was beaten asunder, splintering before him. He shook not at all though his heart throbbed within him. For what is a door but a barrier to experience?
A starving stranger stood quaking in the doorway, ragged and reeking. The stranger lunged forward and grabbed the poor farmer’s bowl of soup, snatching it from him in an instant, drinking it down like an animal, leaving the poor farmer hungry for the night. And the stranger did leave.
As the years passed so the stranger fell upon good fortune. He grew rich and wealthy and decided one day to visit the poor farmer whom he had been told was close to death.
I waited. But I didn’t have to wait for too long.
A man approached me. He wore a long coat that came down to the tattered material that covered his feet. His head was bare save for a few wisps of grey and his whole face was dominated by veined, ruddy cheeks. A huge white moustache sprang from below his nose and reached down almost to his hefty jowls. Though his head was bowed as he came towards me, I somehow sensed he was smiling. And when he was but an arm's length from me, he lifted his head and looked into my eyes. I was right. What a smile!
"Hello, lad,” he said, taking my arm. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who are you?” I asked, as he led me on.
“I am The Walrus," he replied. He bade me wait as he retrieved a wooden rocking chair from the barn. I sat upon it and rocked slowly, back and forth. Or maybe I was still and it was the sky and the earth that were rocking.
The Walrus winked at me and headed back to the barn.
“Come on children!” he shouted, pulling open two large wooden doors. “The time has come!”
And as The Walrus spoke, nine children sprung out into view. They were grubby and ragged and blinking in the daylight. I knew not for how long they had been awaiting my arrival. It all seemed so surreal even then. Oh but I did not know what was to come. I had no idea how surreal it would all get. The children were each carrying a square bale of hay as they trotted out and lined up in front of me. They placed their bale upon the ground before them and awaited further instruction from their leader. The Walrus exuded such pride and the children literally shook with anticipation.
And my life was at a standstill just exactly when it needed to be so.
There they were, nine children standing behind nine bales of hay, all in a line before me, the old barn in the background. All was still as the heavens took a photograph.
“Being for the benefit of Mr Keats, there will be a show tonight! Of Beauty and Truth and Truth and Beauty!” proclaimed The Walrus. “Well, off you go children!”
The first child in the line picked up his bale of hay and stepped a couple of paces towards me. This was truly his big moment. It was all their big moment. I stopped rocking, comforting though it was, and leaned forward, bewitched.
“My name is John,” said the boy. “And I have a tale for you.”
The other children sat down, cross-legged and looked at me. I had eyes only for John.
“There once was a poor farmer who lived alone since the death of his wife and child. He had just one field in which he grew carrots and onions and potatoes. He tilled the land and toiled from dawn until nightfall growing his own food from the soil. And each evening he would sleep upon his straw bed pleading for the dark night to take him in peace to the loved ones he had lost so long ago. He refused to join them of his own free will for his love of life far outweighed his fear of death. Though life be hard, it be life after all.
One night as the poor farmer was about to eat his soup, a soup made from the carrots, onions and potatoes of the field, the old wooden door of his home was beaten asunder, splintering before him. He shook not at all though his heart throbbed within him. For what is a door but a barrier to experience?
A starving stranger stood quaking in the doorway, ragged and reeking. The stranger lunged forward and grabbed the poor farmer’s bowl of soup, snatching it from him in an instant, drinking it down like an animal, leaving the poor farmer hungry for the night. And the stranger did leave.
As the years passed so the stranger fell upon good fortune. He grew rich and wealthy and decided one day to visit the poor farmer whom he had been told was close to death.
Similar Books
