Post by willowdown on Nov 19, 2010 6:05:34 GMT -5
Mistrils of the misty river:
pink, pale blue, violet and lemon
- where do they go to where the sun rises above the forest
and they melt away before its brazen, scampering rays,
golden wraiths more substantial than they?
Do they go down to the caves of the dwarfs
to eat breakfast, play chess or sleep until the afternoon?
do they simply become more elusive,
putting out bright wings of invisibility
like butterflies emerging from cocoons
put out bright pinions of colour,
dancing and cavorting unseen before out eyes,
putting out tongues and making rude faces
and generally behaving in a quite disgraceful manner,
thinking themselves immune to scrutiny or discovery?
Ah, but once I saw them in a mirror a young
companion carried in her handbag
and following them along the banks of the river
(walking backwards can be slow work,
its amazing just how many hidden roots you stumble on)
we came to their Morning Pavilion.
Far from being dismayed that we could see them
they welcomed us with open arms and laughing smiles,
plying us with fruit flavoured morning dew
in tall, fluted glasses, honey-cakes and wafers of crushed
petals held together with resinous pollen;
or, less sweet-toothed, herb and mushroom samosas,
piping hot and sprinkled with birdsong.
"You understand of course," said one gay young fellow,
dressed in a bright blue jacket and orange trousers
piped with green (yes, I know, it sounds horrible
but on him it looked perfectly natural)
"that at this time of day we may no longer
technically be referred to as 'mistrals'.
You must call us will-o-wisps
or wisps of the mid-morning
or handsome inhabitants of the pre-noon siesta."
"I like will-o-wisps," said Sandra, my companion
"but the others seem a bit of a mouthful
and actually you look fairly solid."
She reached out to touch him but gasped
when her hand went straight through his chest
causing her to drop her mirror,
which smashed into at least a hundred pieces.
"That's torn it," I said, and it had.
Though we carefully picked up the largest pieces
and tried looking in them
all we saw were broken images of the mistrals
that disappeared after a second or two.
Obviously they needed a whole mirror to make them visible.
We tried on several occasions to see them again,
using a variety of borrowed mirrors but it was no good.
"Its no good," a passing Fox told us, "after you saw them
the last time their King and Queen got to hear about it.
Naturally the Queen wanted to be seen in a mirror too
but the King was quite incensed and put his foot down.
'Its out of the question,' he said, 'they should have
come to me first or applied in triplicate to the Bureau
of Accidental Reflections.' 'But it wasn't accidental,'
said the Queen, 'it was really rather clever.'
'I'll decide whether it was clever or not,' said the King
and put his Sulking Cap on.
"I'll tell you what, though," said the Fox,
hand over that half-finished chicken
and I'll show you wear the waterfall-billies
take their mid-day constitutional,
splashing and frolicking in Old Ghost's Tarn.
Although I have to tell you its not for the faint-hearted
as none of them wear any clothes,
unless its the occasional lily or scrap of seaweed.'
'But the sea's forty miles away at least,' I said
but the Fox ignored this.
I would have been game but Sandra didn't like
the way the sunlight flashed on Foxie's teeth
and asked me to take her home.
Nevertheless I gave the Fox half of what was left of the chicken
as well as a somewhat squashed chocolate eclair,
at which he bowed deeply and said I was a true gentleman.
"I liked the mistrals," Sandra told me later,
but when it comes to talking foxes one has to be a bit cautious.
My grandmother told me she followed one once
and when she eventually got back home two whole months had passed
- her parents were in a terrible state and made her promise
never to talk to foxes again."
"Hmm," I said, not quite sure if I believed it.
Sandra's grandmother was full of such of tales
(often delivered with a definite twinkle in her eye)
and if one were to believe everything she said
one would soon loose all sense of reality and perspective.
"He seemed a quite personable and trustworthy fellow to me."
I said nothing about the flintlock I had seen
peeping out from beneath his waistcoat.
pink, pale blue, violet and lemon
- where do they go to where the sun rises above the forest
and they melt away before its brazen, scampering rays,
golden wraiths more substantial than they?
Do they go down to the caves of the dwarfs
to eat breakfast, play chess or sleep until the afternoon?
do they simply become more elusive,
putting out bright wings of invisibility
like butterflies emerging from cocoons
put out bright pinions of colour,
dancing and cavorting unseen before out eyes,
putting out tongues and making rude faces
and generally behaving in a quite disgraceful manner,
thinking themselves immune to scrutiny or discovery?
Ah, but once I saw them in a mirror a young
companion carried in her handbag
and following them along the banks of the river
(walking backwards can be slow work,
its amazing just how many hidden roots you stumble on)
we came to their Morning Pavilion.
Far from being dismayed that we could see them
they welcomed us with open arms and laughing smiles,
plying us with fruit flavoured morning dew
in tall, fluted glasses, honey-cakes and wafers of crushed
petals held together with resinous pollen;
or, less sweet-toothed, herb and mushroom samosas,
piping hot and sprinkled with birdsong.
"You understand of course," said one gay young fellow,
dressed in a bright blue jacket and orange trousers
piped with green (yes, I know, it sounds horrible
but on him it looked perfectly natural)
"that at this time of day we may no longer
technically be referred to as 'mistrals'.
You must call us will-o-wisps
or wisps of the mid-morning
or handsome inhabitants of the pre-noon siesta."
"I like will-o-wisps," said Sandra, my companion
"but the others seem a bit of a mouthful
and actually you look fairly solid."
She reached out to touch him but gasped
when her hand went straight through his chest
causing her to drop her mirror,
which smashed into at least a hundred pieces.
"That's torn it," I said, and it had.
Though we carefully picked up the largest pieces
and tried looking in them
all we saw were broken images of the mistrals
that disappeared after a second or two.
Obviously they needed a whole mirror to make them visible.
We tried on several occasions to see them again,
using a variety of borrowed mirrors but it was no good.
"Its no good," a passing Fox told us, "after you saw them
the last time their King and Queen got to hear about it.
Naturally the Queen wanted to be seen in a mirror too
but the King was quite incensed and put his foot down.
'Its out of the question,' he said, 'they should have
come to me first or applied in triplicate to the Bureau
of Accidental Reflections.' 'But it wasn't accidental,'
said the Queen, 'it was really rather clever.'
'I'll decide whether it was clever or not,' said the King
and put his Sulking Cap on.
"I'll tell you what, though," said the Fox,
hand over that half-finished chicken
and I'll show you wear the waterfall-billies
take their mid-day constitutional,
splashing and frolicking in Old Ghost's Tarn.
Although I have to tell you its not for the faint-hearted
as none of them wear any clothes,
unless its the occasional lily or scrap of seaweed.'
'But the sea's forty miles away at least,' I said
but the Fox ignored this.
I would have been game but Sandra didn't like
the way the sunlight flashed on Foxie's teeth
and asked me to take her home.
Nevertheless I gave the Fox half of what was left of the chicken
as well as a somewhat squashed chocolate eclair,
at which he bowed deeply and said I was a true gentleman.
"I liked the mistrals," Sandra told me later,
but when it comes to talking foxes one has to be a bit cautious.
My grandmother told me she followed one once
and when she eventually got back home two whole months had passed
- her parents were in a terrible state and made her promise
never to talk to foxes again."
"Hmm," I said, not quite sure if I believed it.
Sandra's grandmother was full of such of tales
(often delivered with a definite twinkle in her eye)
and if one were to believe everything she said
one would soon loose all sense of reality and perspective.
"He seemed a quite personable and trustworthy fellow to me."
I said nothing about the flintlock I had seen
peeping out from beneath his waistcoat.
