Monday, 9 December 2013
Fires await a basket full of live crabs. The cook is irascible, the crabs are malformed; mindless they clamber over one another, far too small. He sees a dead mouse on the floor below and kicks it down the side of the cooker. Above the galley, three wise monkeys sing: they are penning a tale of licentiousness and gin. A pen apiece and for each new lyric, a prize from the red, white and blue sweetie jars above their eyes. Outside this home of monkeys, mice and cook, the afternoon falls softly by the sound of a plunging brook: dust motes are flicking through the twilight.
Rabbit is not for the pot yet, though each passing evening brings surrender closer, and the promise of spring. For now, cocooned in the under-earth, for her, winter’s implacable onslaught is escaped.
The copyright of this post belongs to Ben Hargreaves