Saturday, 2 August 2014

Stone 2

How far had he travelled?
The open umbrella stands in the far corner of his loft apartment, always unfurled to remind him.
Will he ever go back home? This intrigued others more than him. Stone liked to keep his own counsel and he knew the enigma drew the women to him. For this he often endured a slap in the face.
Will he ever go back home? Where is home anyway, the place where you can retreat to lick your wounds, where the kiss of betrayal can be washed away like silvered cobwebs from hornbeam trees.
Will he ever go back home? Stone turns the ring on his finger and opens up the secret compartment. The sand is still there, tiny grains of Palestine. A memory of a fishing village, now all but destroyed; thoughts of swimming in cool waters at the end of long hot days.
Will he ever go back home? The upheaval the letter brought all those years ago, the tang of lemonade on his tongue, memories, memories, further back, further back. The miles of running, of escaping, of fleeing with pockets full of coins, all of unknown denominations, the currency as foreign to him as the chorus of voices.
Will he ever go back home? Home now to Stone is like a baby hidden in a field, abandoned and unknown bringing freedom and respite. His red front door is like a gateway on fire: full of entrances and exits, excitement and disappointment linger there.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule

Stone 1

Two of a kind, the birds fluttered in the tamarind tree, disturbing the sultry afternoon. The sky, low and filled with tattoos of clouds, hung like a vale of cumulus cloth, jewelled and almost ominous.
The dandelion clocks shimmered in the field like feathers, puffy and silver, their parts dispersing like rockets, disentangling, disengaging.
Soon the storm would shatter the quiet brooding of the late afternoon. Stone would find himself sheltering under a tree no doubt, as he had lingered on the heath too long. His mask of indifference to the weather could never slip, his resilience to such vagaries of climate a cause of much teasing with his fellow migrant workers.
The joy of lying undisturbed amidst the rosebay willow herbs, with kind birds singing to him was as an aphrodisiac. His weary musculature eased like a baby’s bottom, and his frantic mind calmed as the blowing dandelion mountain flowed past his prone body.
This vale, like a partner to his brain, brings him respite and joy.

The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule