#apocalyptic?

Crib

Apocalyptic?

"We must accept the baptism of the gutter" (Yeats). "We must love one another or die" (some other poet). "We must eat and marry And give our children college educations, Write fair insurance for our wives and die If possible before retirement," say The despised who despise in innocence. Accept, yes. Choose what we accept. And die. Create yes, even if genes Are marbled through with radioactive rays And promise a millenium of cripples And fools of God (will they do better?). Praise The light, that we can breathe it, and defy All mustiness around the living I. This treadmill turns by us, and of itself. For just this sparrow time, we tramp in day, Our one arc under the magnificent sky. If love first turn the doggedness to dance Then staggers on the why, still monuments Hover oblique to a descending wheel. Figures of fun before us and behind Glimpse wry stone silhouettes, and find an eye Emptily searching theirs. Old scores for hautboy Sing from forgotten winters. The faint cry Where the wheel verges upwards peals A splendour in our hearts. An amnesty No prince declared yet shines. The old man reels. Love in absurdity rocks even just men down And doom is luminous today.

This is yet another of my attempts to write a fictional story … this one just popped into my head last night just as I was planning to go to bed, of course! In the year 2054 … My Grannie died last night.  She was my last connection to a world I’ll never know.  I remember her stories from my earliest memory of days gone by, a time that I cannot even imagine, a time where people were free to be…

My hair is made of crisp violets, or hyacinth which the wind combs back. Not that I can tell which of them my hair was made of. I am a dryad, in fact, so it’s probably made of both. Alas, it’s too short to tell, it barely brushes my shoulders, and the only thing I could be certain of is the texture of it. Not that it matters. I’m dancing through the forest, sunbeams joining the dance as they peer through the trees. It’s a feeling of happiness, of being wild and free. There’s a soft breeze, and I let out a soft hum of contentment as it drifts over my skin, fragile and thin, like the bark of a birch tree.

Through the gaps of the trees I catch glimpses of a cerulean sky, the vague, wispy shapes of the clouds drifting lazily across the vast expanse of the sky. I twirl, looking up, the sky spinning crazily above me. A laugh bubbles up out of my lips and I collapse on the grassy bank of a pond, catching my breath, slight remnants of laughter escaping now and then. After I’ve gained my composure somewhat, I sit up, the grass soft and cool under my fingers. A blue and green iridescent blur buzzes by my ear, and I hold a hand up, pointer finger extended as I study the small dragonfly with a faint smile after it lands.

“Well, hello there.” I say softly. The dragonfly buzzes happily, before buzzing off with a blur of wings to skim the water. I study the pond with content, the clear blue water giving me a glimpse of the fish darting around, and I chuckle slightly when a rather pretty green and yellow perch summons up enough bravery to jump out of the water, scales sparkling as the sun’s rays hit them just right. A small chuckle escapes my mouth when the perch lands back in the water, without the bug it had been aiming for, swimming around in circles to indicate its annoyance. I’m content sitting by the pond, watching the events play out when I hear a stick snap. I stiffen, leap to my feet, and flee to my tree, which, thankfully, isn’t too far away.

From my refuge, I watch as a human approaches the pond a few minutes later, a sharpened stick in hand and a determined expression on its face. He looks young, maybe little more than a teenager, his clothes are ragged and torn, a bloody bandage covering his right upper arm. I watch with a small pang of fear as he crouches by the pond, black hair falling in his face, obscuring it from view, and rendering me unable to judge his expression, and therefore, his intentions. Would he find me? I certainly hoped not. The last thing I wanted was to be found by one of them. I watch as he stays perfectly still, staring at the water. Slowly, he raises the stick, hesitates, then in one sharp, fluid motion, darts the stick forward into the water. I can faintly hear him exclaim something, but I can’t make out the words. To my sorrow, I see the yellow and green perch I had been admiring not more than half an hour ago, flipping uselessly on the sharpened end of the stick, a single crimson trail making its way down the wood.

Warily, I watch as the human male makes his way out of my sight. I wait for a while, making sure he’s out of the vicinity before carefully exiting my tree. I make my way to the north side of the pond, continuing forward, it doesn’t take very long for the forest to abruptly peter out. I stand in the grass, staring out sorrowfully at the harsh desert that surrounds this small slip of forest, the withered, decaying remains of tree trunks the only signs that this had been a flourishing forest. Of course I didn’t want the human to find me.