Issue 10
Writers' Bloc
Welcome to the twelfth issue of The Journal and the last issue of this term! For those of you not familiar with The Journal, it is an anthology of creative writing which showcases the best writers at The University of Birmingham. Thank you to all those who sent pieces in this month. The theme this time was an open theme and we had a wonderfully broad variety of reponses. You will find work in here about all sorts of topics; from a story about washing up elves, to a poem about a forensic pathologist. Issue 1 2 contains lots of work from new writers, as well as writing veterans, and the submissions were narrowed down from a very large batch of strong entries. If your piece was not included this time, don't be disheartened as the next issue will be open for submissions soon. Send submissions to writersblocjournal@gmail.com and keep an eye out on the Writer's Bloc Facebook/Website for more details of when this will be out next term. If you like what you read you can find more work on our website at www.writersblocuob.com and follow The Journal twitter @TheJournal_WB. You can also follow our society's activities on Twitter @WritersBlocUoB and at Facebook.com/writersblocuob. Happy reading! Georgia Tindale, Editor
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The Journal
Contents Daniel Steeden
The Forensic Pathologist
Elden Morrow Dry Lipped
Ludo Cinelli
Lending A Helping Hand To Those Who Try Hard
Fabio Thomas
Coffee at Midnight
Kate Foley Number
Dean Keating
The Washing Up Elves
Elena Orde
4 5 6 8 10 11
Urn
14
Charlie Moloney
16
The Episode of Bertie Bumble
Dean Eastmond Creak
19
Jessica Syposz
20
Robyn Townsend
22
Jake Scott
26
Underbelly Nightwalkin' Blues Slow Pursuit
Our Lost Elysium (Feature Piece)
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Writers' Bloc
The Forensic Pathologist There’s been a shooting in his heart, a stabbing in his lungs. The leukocytes were here – blue lights and yellow tape. The antibodies took a statement and ruled out a rape. There’s scorched flesh too, where things got heated and someone touched a nerve. His whole world collapsed with his aorta and left ventricle, as his killer disappeared through a crack in his optic nerve and he becomes just another multi-system organ failure. And he becomes my playground.
Daniel Steeden
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The Journal
Dry Lipped Down here, only the groan of the ocean is louder than the rasp and hiss of oxygen. Too much air out of the tank can cause dry lips. Down here, it is too dim for human life. The veil of the sun grates against the eyeballs urging ascension. I was warned to be careful, to not arise too fast. Too fast, and bubbles will be trapped: not just beneath the wetsuit, but beneath the skin. Niggling, jostling, screaming. Bends rack the body, do not dare kick towards the surface too eagerly. The ache will surely linger beyond the pastel relief of the winter sun.
Elden Morrow 5
Writers' Bloc
Lending A Helping Hand To Those Who Try Hard And the Church said to Galileo, ‘you will sit nailed to this chair for the rest of your life, and your eye shall be fixed to this telescope, and you will admire God’s work forever’. *** I visited the church in the salt mines. There were some salt crosses, salt collection boxes, salt pews, salt candles, a salt Jesus, a salt altar. A saltar. I took a pepper grinder out of my pocket, and sprinkled some on the ground. The priests saw me, called me a heathen, and threw me on the salty floor. They grabbed the pepper grinder and beat me with it. As I lost my senses, I stuck my tongue out, and a grain of pepper touched it, together with a pinch of salt. It was delicious. *** Dear God, Please don’t take this to be a sign that I believe in you any more than I do. But I guess divinity is more plausible than telepathy, and I really need to tell my Mum something. So if you’re listening, pass on this message, and if you’re not, then I’m about to die in a bit anyway so it doesn’t really matter, and if you’re listening and not going to pass on my message because I’ve been a bad in life or whatever, then you can fuck off. But anyway, anyway, anyway, I don’t have all that much time, Mum, so I just want to say, thank you, Mum, for taking me to church when I was a kid. And I don’t think taking children to church (yeah I don’t care if you’re listening instead of passively relaying this message, God) is the 6
The Journal best idea, not that it doesn’t promote a sense of community, but because it gives people the sense that there is a reward after life, and who knows, there might be, and that is your motivation for being a good person, the reward of going to heaven, after you die. I don’t think it should be your motivation though, I think life is enough of a reward in itself, because it gives me people like you, Mum. And I won’t be going to heaven if it exists, no Mum, I’m not if it exists or it doesn’t, because there are bad people and I have done bad things and they’re going to kill me soon, and I know that you tried and I want to thank you for that and ask that you never blame yourself even though I know you probably will, but you did not make me the person that I am. You didn’t make me like I am, cheating and stealing and drinking – you taught me to think of other people before myself, which is why I’m thinking about you, I’m not trying to claw my way out of this room (I did try a bit earlier and it was pretty useless, I think I’m really doomed here Mum). You’re the best person in the world and I love you and I know you will probably love me after you find out all the horrible shit I did. If this message receives you, you can probably contact me through the same channels later on. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of anything so logical. Alright. Bye Mum. I love you. Right, did you get all that God? Good. If you’re as good a thing as they say you are then I don’t really need to thank you, but then again I have a sense of people getting the thanks they deserve thanks to my mum, so thanks. I might see you soon.
Ludo Cinelli
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Writers' Bloc
Coffee at Midnight Senor Sergio told me to look at the streets, seeing the cuts on my feet. He told tales of lighters, umbrellas and free flip-flops. I looked, but could find none, living off love from across the pond in the form of means to make money. I read a book about teeth and nails whilst toying with the idea of being hard up. I’ve played Radiohead four times a night from Praia to Torto, travelled to Bari by bus, on money earned from one song. I’ve jumped from five meters and heard tales from twenty two. A man now seventy dived off it in his youth sits below and heckles the tourists. I’ve learnt languages from lifeguards throwing pebbles down the beach we would later pick up.
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The Journal I’ve been dumb struck. Cut up bread every day for two months. Served dinner for 22 or 1 6 or 1 and the help can’t count in their own language. I’ve held onto metal after the count of two. My hands now match my feet. I’ve set vacuum cleaners on fire, and broken keys in the door, there are no bones about it. I’ve woken up to the sound of a dog chewing at a zip, and a father asking if everything is intact. I’ve brought cigarettes for a friend, who was afraid of the model who worked behind the counter. I’ve been heckled in two different languages and understood neither of them. I’ve been caught in the act. I’ve left beds unmade. I’ve opened bank statements that weren’t mine. I’ve boiled coffee at midnight. I’ve slept on the rocks above the sea.
Fabio Thomas 9
Writers' Bloc
Number When my daddy counted my toes in the hospital and my momma counted the consonants in my name, they didn't count on me trading in toy airplanes and porcelain dolls for a pack of cigarettes and the beer in their fridge
Kate Foley
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The Journal
The Washing Up Elves I remember first hearing about the washing up elves when I was four years old. I grew up with two older brothers, and we all got away with a lot of shit. We weren’t troublemakers or anything like that, but our parents didn’t exactly have high expectations us when it came to helping out around the house. That might have been their fault as much as ours, but Logan—my oldest brother—would always leave dirty dishes everywhere after a meal, and Mom would always say something like “Oh, yeah. That’s all right, Logan. The washing up elves will be dropping by later. Don’t worry about it.” Jess and I were guilty of plenty of other things. Mom would have standoffs with me to see who would last longest without picking up the clothes all over my room. She always caved when it became clear I was willing to reuse underwear. Jess had a problem with putting things back from where he got them. You could never find the scissors if he was the last person to use them. Stuff like that. Most of it was fine, but Mom hated it when Jess would drag one of the dining room chairs to the living room or his bedroom and just leave it there for days. But Logan had a monopoly on avoiding the dishes. Mom would occasionally punish him by not letting him go see a movie with some friends, but then she would feel sorry and treat him to a pizza. She was soft, and he took advantage of that. It became almost an art form. On Christmas Eve when I was seven, after we were finishing up with dinner, Logan hopped off his chair at the table and ran to his bedroom to play Yoshi’s Island. Just before he reached the stairs, Mom shouted to him: “That’s all right, Logan! The washing up elves will be coming around tonight!” She rolled her eyes and cleared the table, putting all the used dishes in the sink. It was either because of the holiday or since she was more tired than normal that she just left the mess there that night without cleaning. Mom 11
Writers' Bloc probably earned a whole lot more lazy evenings in front of the TV than she ever took. The evening chugged along unremarkably for everyone except me. Jess isn’t much older than I am but even at a young age he had become too selfconscious because of his friends from school to take Christmas seriously. I was the only one wondering what Santa would be bringing that year. So, when it was time for bed, I fidgeted for hours before finally falling asleep. But during some hour late into the night, I woke up with a stinging, dry mouth. I slunk down to the kitchen playing a dumb game in which I pretended I was blind. I could hardly see anything anyway, but there’s a certain kind of satisfaction that comes with being able to navigate a place you know so well that you can close your eyes and not bump into anything or trip. That’s one of way of feeling like you’re home, even if you’re miles away. When I made it downstairs and opened my eyes, I could see light poking out from the small slit of space that separated the kitchen door from the tile floor. Then the sounds of plates and utensils sliding into the dishwasher registered in my ears and I froze. This was it, I was sure of it. I would finally get to see the washing up elves that Mom had been talking about for years. Compared to Santa and the tooth fairy, the washing up elves had always been relatively low on my list of mythical creatures I hoped to see in my lifetime. Maybe it was because Mom never described them and there weren’t books written about them or movies based on their late-night washing up adventures. But my imagination ran away as I crept closer. Did they wear the same kinds of hats that Santa’s elves wore? How small were they? If I scared them while they were working, would the dishes never get done ever again? Would Mom and Dad just have to keep buying more and more dishes until the elves accepted a peace offering? Kids don’t do well with anticipation. I’m sure I thought I was opening the door quietly, but I must have rushed in, because Jess gave a yelp and would have broken a mug by dropping it on the floor if he hadn’t been such a dexterous kid. 12
The Journal “Jess?” He looked at me in the same way I looked at anyone back then who hovered over my shoulder to see me drawing something I wasn’t finished with yet. “Go back to bed, Dean.” And so I did. I even forgot to get a glass of water. When I walked in for breakfast the next morning, Mom was fixing everyone her traditional pancake Christmas morning feast with scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and beans. I noticed a card on the counter, which was unusually clean. Jess’ handwriting was easy to spot for me, so Mom would have known immediately. Merry Christmas, from the washing up elves xx. I doubt Logan remembered that. I doubt Logan even remembered Mom talking about the washing up elves at all. After that Christmas, not much changed. Logan still left his messes everywhere. Every Christmas Eve, though, Jess would do the same thing. It was his yearly present for Mom to open, I guess. When he eventually moved out, I continued the tradition. Between the two of us, we didn’t miss a Christmas for over twenty years. Since Logan died, there’s been fewer messes to clean—fewer dishes to wash. Christmas is one of the only times each year when we see Jess. Mom moves a bit slower. Her breakfast is a little less organized. Sometimes she’ll fry the eggs without scrambling them. Sometimes she’ll forget the powdered sugar for the pancakes. Instead of me or Jess cleaning and leaving a note for her to wake up to, we try to leave as many dirty dishes around the house as possible. It’s not often—maybe once every couple years—but she’ll sometimes shake her head and remind us sarcastically that it’s fine. The washing up elves will take care of it.
Dean Keating
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The Journal
Urn ‘So tell me what you find hardest?’ Interviewer leans conspiratorially close, sharp lines and shoulder pads. She squints into the question. Cables snake over crocheted throws and industrial lighting squats like huge mechanical flowers glaring. ‘Don’tlookatthecamera. Are you lonely?’ Beside her husband she weighs the solidity of his lined hand as if waiting for a slip. His watch is twisted, buckled upside down he called it a ‘hand-clock’ yesterday. Sometimes it feels like loving smoke. He clears his throat. A day-old cut near his mouth coagulates this morning she shaved for him.
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Writers' Bloc ‘So I hear he’s forgotten your wedding?’ showing snow-bank teeth in a placid smile. A break long enough to allow for editing, then ‘Do you call yourself his carer?’ She swells big enough to hold two lives and replies ‘I’m his urn.’ Silence. Beside their clasped hands, time ticks backwards.
Elena Orde
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The Journal
The Episode of Bertie Bumble Among the rolling hills and far away from the noisy cities, Bertie Bumble lives in a village called Bumbleton. Bumbleton is a quiet, happy place. Silly old Bertie Bumble lives in a ramshackle house on the edge of the village. There are holes in his roof. On windy days his chimney falls down, and he has to climb onto his roof and put it back up. People in the village say Bertie Bumble is a nice man. He wears big clunky shoes. They say that he is very jolly. He has rosy cheeks, and a nose as big and red as a tomato. He can hardly see anymore; he always looks like he is squinting very hard. Everybody has their favourite story about Bertie Bumble. One day Bertie Bumble decided to go on an adventure. He jumped into his rickety car, which went chug chug when he turned the key. The exhaust went BANG, and then he was off, very, very slowly down the street. Children in the village loved to run alongside Bertie’s car, and Billy, who was the fastest boy in the village, could keep up with Bertie running backwards. Bertie would roll up the windows and look straight ahead until they went away. After a while the villagers and the village disappeared from view, and Bertie found himself petering along an old country road. All around him he could see the lovely countryside where he had grown up. A happy memory from his youth came back to him, and a tear fell from his eye. He remembered a wonderful summer with Anna, the Milkman’s wife. They had kissed each other tenderly on the hilltop with the beautiful sunset, back when they were both so young and free. Bertie thought that he might like to see that sunset again. He sped off at the fastest speed his little car could go. If he hurried, he would get there just in time. The gate leading down the old country road was padlocked, and so he had to proceed on foot. Bertie Bumble waded through thick mud and cow dung for a 16
Writers' Bloc long time. Eventually he felt tired, and sat down among the toadstools of a rotting oak tree. He looked up at the sky. It was getting late. He had not even reached the foot of the hill, and the sunset was almost over. He blew his big red nose on his big spotty handkerchief and thought about the horrible house that he must return to and longed so desperately to escape. He stood up, knowing that he must continue to the hilltop, he must do something. Too often in life he had given up, simply accepted the monotony and disappointment of everyday things. He started forwards again, even though the night had now entirely taken hold. As he carried on he passed by a swamp. He caught a reflection of himself on the moonlit surface of the water. He saw a haggard, cartoon of a man. There was no humanity, only a mass of wrinkles. Was this what he really was? Everyone in the village had forced him into becoming a caricature: cheery old, silly old Bertie. But he was a real person! He was broken and wretched and without hope. Didn’t he have a right to feel something other than emptiness? He became determined to recapture the sentimentality of his moment with Anna. It was the greatest passion he had ever known, and it was now just a memory that he alone cherished, for Anna had married the milkman. And yet that memory was all he had to justify the failed project he had etched out and called the rest of his life. If he could just evoke the spirit of that moment once more, then maybe he could bear a life with only one emotional crescendo. After what seemed like an age, Bertie Bumble got to the foot of the hill. The first time he tried to climb up the little hill he tripped and rolled all the way back down. Bertie tried again, and again he went rolling, rolling, rolling back down the hill. Considering that it may be his bitter lot to be a living joke, he picked up a big stick to support himself and once again made for the summit. When Bertie eventually got to the top he was so tired that he went straight to 17
The Journal sleep. Bertie felt the sun shining in his eyes. He sat up. From the hill he could see the whole valley. He became aware of someone else sitting on the hilltop. It was Anna, the milkman’s wife. Bertie’s confusion was apparent, and so Anna smiled sweetly and said “I often come here.” Bertie considered this, and his heart raced. He felt impelled to find out, did she even remember? What if it had all slipped away, leaving him alone in the past? Bertie Bumble swallowed his fear, and forced himself to ask her. “Yes Bertie,” she said, and she smiled at him again, “I do remember that time.” A familiar calm set in, and they sat quietly for a while. They stayed on the hill until the sun was high in the sky. On the way home they laughed and sang the old songs of their youth, learned many years ago.
Charlie Moloney
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Writers' Bloc
Creak: Your words form universes of northern lights, diluted by stars and the constellations of your cold lips against mine. whole mountain ranges sigh and creak, standing on their tiptoes, reaching for the moon, for your rhymes, for you to be dissolved into snowcapped hours, where broken typewriter keys align with earthquakes and forgotten mistakes. you are a waterfall, an unexplored ocean, the yellowed maps from other people's wrong turns. you are every superlative that creaks my floorboards and undresses itself across my walls as starlight.
Dean Eastmond
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The Journal
Underbelly Nightwalkin’ Blues Clerk in his Daylife, office wretch, money-talker Now he’s fighting the City, aimless steps A Nightwalker Nowhere going Walks in the gutters, on the ‘keep-off-the-grass’-es Watches the youngsters who kiss in Underpasses. Just passing. No Westminster wastrel, briefcase full of sardines, shoes drowned, canal water, bulging Suit seams scream. Went a’swimming. In his Youth, trapped hankering in dusty white bed for true bawd, buggered off to the red lights, red legs instead. Unsteady stepping. Now back there, now back, to pools of lemon piss light, Cheddar Road, whisky, alleys where the violence is Bright Bleached, bloodless, his skin Neon dripping off his tongue Carlsberg in his cranium,
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Writers' Bloc Sees faces in the puddled stink of oily rainbows underfoot, in plastic, aluminium, street corners pocked with chewing gum, battling though a heaving glow of hazy, woozy caramel, coating, coating everything, as taxi hum grows louder and scarlet eyes wink back at him. Night-dweller, he throws away his tie with pride Amid the buzz of cars and bars, amid, amid the pristine grime He’s a’grinning. Jaw slack, drunk, falling. Is that Digbeth Calling? Yes, he’s conquered the City, down the high-street he’s crawling. OnlyShop-window mannequins look far too real at 4am.
Jessica Syposz
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The Journal
Slow Pursuit Sunday night: he lays out his clothing for tomorrow. The weekend stubble on his chin is bothering him and he rubs it gently with his thumb as he considers ties, before carefully pairing a sliver of silver and blue with his newly ironed grey shirt. He crosses the room and opens his window a crack, allowing in a breeze that flattens his pyjama shirt against his chest, and refreshes the room. Monday: she is a splash of colour amongst the white shirts and dark blue pencil skirts that fill up the cafe at noon, daily. This is how he notices her, the woman in the pale pink dress. A floral scent accompanies her as she weaves round tables to a free seat at the window. Sipping his coffee, he observes her slyly. She sits up straight and neat at first, slim and birdlike, picking at a pastry. With one hand she expertly holds a worn paperback; thumb and little finger holding the pages apart, with the three fingers between supporting the book. As time passes, she becomes disinterested in the pastry. She lays the book flat on the table and pours over it, her lips parted slightly, licking her fingertip as she goes to turn the page. He feels as if he’s intruding on an intimate, secret moment. He shifts in his seat and brushes crumbs off his lap, a spark of electricity running up him as this coincides with an innocent bite of her thumb as she considers the literature before her. Tuesday: a gaggle of women block his path. The dry strawlike-strands piled up on their heads smell of bleach, and it tickles his nose and makes his throat itch. He feels the irritation rise in his chest and balls his hands in to fists as he waits for them to dissipate. Finally he is at the cafe, panting a little from the stress, more than from the rush down the street. Still grumbling, he takes his place in the queue. A deep breath makes his heart skip and for a moment he does not understand. Then he hears her laugh and she’s right there, dipping her head when the barista tries to flirt, and running her fingertips over the glossy counter. They are suddenly so near to one another. He can breathe her in, the light floral 22
Writers' Bloc notes of her perfume and beneath that, the clean, pure scent of skin. Her voice is soft and lilting, convincing him there were a thousand secrets she needed to share, only with him. He can see the delicate powder that keeps her complexion soft and smooth. He admires the fine down on her arms as she pushes up the sleeve of her cardigan. As she scratches the crook of her elbow, he observes the neatly manicured nails. When the barista finally releases her order, she quickly trots to a seat and he smiles fondly as she takes out her book. Wednesday: today her dress is pale blue, matching the scrunchie in her hair. He sits jammed up in a corner booth, watching as she reads the beloved paperback at a window seat across the room. Chin resting on her cupped hand, she takes little finger in her mouth, lips pursed around it. Her shoulders are sloping and pale, but scattered with freckles, and her red hair catches the sunlight and turns to gold. She is an angel of Botticelli, classic in her beauty and sensual in her feminine body. He notices, to his shame, how full her breasts are, emphasised by the cut of her dress. His lower body tenses, and he aches to relieve himself. The hand lying still on his knee now slides, almost without his control, to the erection nudging uncomfortably against the material of his suit trousers. With an almost imperceptible movement, he slips his hand in to his pocket and gently massages the head of his cock, shifting occasionally to push the length further in to his hand. His entire body trembles. She sucks her little finger. A woman stomps past him to the toilets, carrying her grizzling baby, and the moment ends. Panic replaces lust, flooding his body and making his head spin. His shame forces him up and out in to the street. Thursday: standing aside, he scans the room for a blue scrunchie and the soft swish of a skirt. But amongst the noise, there is a deafening absence. No perfume, no high laughter. His stomach knots, and then grumbles, but he puts off ordering. Instead, he waits, checking the time every ten minutes. Finally the anxiety rising in his stomach forces him to join the queue and then rush to a spare seat. Bouncing his leg, he fixes his eyes on the door. Perhaps she saw 23
The Journal him yesterday, cramped in the corner and lusting like a bitch in heat. She must have realised what a shameful man he is. He disgusts her, and she’ll never come back, she’ll be telling the police this moment. His head aches with panic and embarrassment, and then with five minutes to spare, she bursts in. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is untidy, hanging loose beside her face in frizzy strands. A bulging bag pulls one shoulder down slightly. But she is still radiant. Like Venus, she commands attention; all noise, colour and light in the cafe is dimmed by her presence. She rushes to the counter and orders a large black coffee and taps her foot as she waits, glancing around. His heart flutters. She looks unhappy and he wants to gather her in his arms, and kiss those pink cheeks till her brow unfurrows. Soon she is gone, whirling out with her coffee to go, and a few moments later he is walking back to the office, missing her. Friday: he hovers by the door, watching the clock and waiting. He will slip into the queue behind her and strike up conversation. He bought a copy of the paperback she always has close at hand, and has read it four times. He will pay for her coffee and pastry, having carefully observed what she orders each day and has set aside the exact change. Then they’ll sit together, and conversation will flow. He’ll be charming, but not flirtatious; he’s seen how awkward the barista makes her with his poorly concealed lust. The bell above the door jingles and a chorus of voices and laughter fills the café. He’s shoved aside by a tall young man with dark untidy hair and a young woman leaning close, cackling and falling forward. The vulgarity makes him frown, and he begins to anxiously search the thickened crowd. But the vulgar woman straightens, and he feels a rush of horror. She’s here, with this brute. He is grabbing at her skirts and tugging her close; wrapping thick arms around her tiny waist; burying his bearded face in her beautiful, Botticelli curls. His head throbs and his mind is black. As quickly as they arrived, she and the ape sweep out again, charging on to the dirty sidewalk to tramp along, arm in arm like teenagers.
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Writers' Bloc Saturday night: she lays the old paperback on the bed stand and moves away to the wardrobe to pick out a dress for that evening. With half a dozen pages to go, she’ll be glad to finish it, and hopes her mother won’t insist on her joining the ladies for book club again. Returning to the bed stand, she moves to flick open the novel and rush to the conclusion. But it’s not her battered copy lying there, bent at the corners and with a coffee ring on the cover. Instead, a pristine new edition takes its place. She is cold inside and out; a breeze stirs the hem of her slip and she is reminded of the night she slipped out of the house in her nightie, and found her father beating the neighbour’s barking dog with a spade. She turns towards the window and he’s there, slumped against the wall. His eyes are dark, and unfathomable.
Robyn Townsend
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The Journal
Our Lost Elysium Feature Piece
Lucky were we, in summers past, To lie in fields of sweeping grass, And feel Time brush our cheeks. He rushed us past on soughing wind; We waited for life to begin, With Grief not ours to seek. In shades of trees and boughs of oaks, Our youth played out in loving strokes, While crows were thronged above. Beside the stream and by the brook We forced old Death to close his book, And only saw the doves. From under sunsets scarlet-hued, In fallow meadows, stained with dew, We looked to East instead. As foxes crowded to our scent We wondered what the wolves' howl meant But listened not for dread. Between the sheep and lounging cows We wandered with no heed for hours, The threat of Life seemed moot. As autumn came and singed the leaves, And hedges withered in their sheaves, Our holly tree bore fruit. 26
Writers' Bloc The world we had of dales and glades, Of open countries unafraid, Would seem to always be. But as the snow came drifting in Presumptive cold, the lovers' sin, The crickets turned to flee. Now blankets cold snubbed out our flame, But too obsessed to mark the shame, We may as well be dumb. If only we had had a sign, Or heard a warning come in time, We would not feel so numb. But Time now gripped us by the throat, The watchman Grief had come to gloat, With crows behind his threats. The doves had all lain down and died, The East now blazed across the sky; The wolves collect their debts. The argument is laid to rest, Our trees succumbed to Winter's test, And now the glades are gone. There's silence where once music played; We loudly mourn mistakes we made, But still the wind drives on.
Jake Scott 27