Saturday, October 25, 2008

Pitter patter tiny footsteps

How true were the peacock lady’s words. How very true. The lovely lady truly was at the mercy of the ring; unable to step out of her own front door without fear of being discovered, imprisoned, and sentenced to death. She did, at first, try to leave the house. She donned a pair of long silk gloves, kept her hands in her pockets and, during one long, cold winter, she even held a small fur muff. But the ring forbade it; at night, it glowed with a phosphorescence powerful enough to illuminate the depths of the ocean, and during the day, it throbbed with an intense heated glow, spitting tiny, sizzling embers into the air.

The lovely lady soon grew accustomed to the shape of her walls, her front door, her windows. Days turned into months, months to years, and the years continued, one after the other, until two entire decades could be heard running through the lovely lady’s corridors, pitter patter, pitter patter, tiny footsteps. During those years, the ring’s jewel expanded until it was twice its previous size, and its sparkle became brighter until it almost blinded the lovely lady as she went about her daily house-duties. It was both stunningly beautiful and unbearably overpowering. Not a day went by that didn’t have the lovely lady wringing her hands in painful desperation, while simultaneously holding her left hand up to the light so as to marvel at the miraculous beauty glowing on her finger.

***I could not decide on an illustration for this continuation of the tale. So, I ask you, dear silent reader, can a poem illustrate a story? All in favour, say "aye." The ayes have it! So here it is:

THE PEACOCK (By Judith Wright)

Shame on the aldermen who locked
the Peacock in a dirty cage!
his blue and copper sheens are mocked
by habit, hopelessness and age.

The weary Sunday families
along their gravelled paths repeat
the pattern of monotonies
that he treads out with restless feet.

And yet the Peacock shines alone;
and if one metal feather fall
another grows where that was grown.
Love clothes him still, in spite of all.

How pure the hidden spring must rise
that time and custom cannot stain!
It speaks its joy again - again.
Perhaps the aldermen are wise.

5 comments:

Anna said...

Eleanor, I've put your poem on my bedside table. I read it and tears come to my eyes, you've captured so many of my feelings and I can't see how you can do that. You are truly blessed and I feel blessed knowing you. Love.

eurolush said...

I didn't have time to leave a comment on your last installment-- and now a new addition has been posted.

Here I sit...still captivated.

Still thinking of the ring. And what it signifies.

It is a metaphor...but for what? I must think.

PS-

You really did write a beautiful poem for Anna.

Of course, she's a sweetheart...and worthy of it.

bluemountainsmary said...

I agree - a beautiful poem for our lovely Anna.

Eleanor - what are you going to do with this talent of yours.

Your evocative, melancholy stories that stay with the reader all day.

Your exquisite poems.

laura said...

"...until two entire decades could be heard running through the lovely lady’s corridors"

I love it!
Your writing is magical as always and so hauntingly beautiful.

What a great read before bed. My mind is dancing... : )

Anna said...

The "April witch" - I really like that one! Hope you do too. I feel lieka very bad blog friend, I think "I'll read the whole story in one sitting when I'm all settled down.." That moment hasn't come yet, but tonight I'll make a cup of tea and read your magic!