Once was warrior village

Once was warrior village

For a short while stopping aside the paths of people. The trails of woman and of man. Trails the defining way of those that create them. Behind the faces of bush and tree are their leavings and litter. The unwanted and decaying. Once a beautiful object with uses galore. Now a rotting heap. Home to worms, bugs and spore.

Across the road the sea laps. Laps and laps on the seas rocky shore. Struggling plants reach away from the hills seeking the suns light. The seas harsh wind pushes them back. No going forward, no going backwards. The great Karaka tree here has no way to spread its wide branches. A balding stubble amongst robust shrubs.

Passing through from there to here to yet another there, winds the road of mankinds mind. Between the water and the wind and the hills slowly pushing their way upwards. For me, I prefer the paths of the sky. The paths of the sky, and the tracks of the birds and the bees as they fly.

On the road to what once was warrior village. Place of so many broken locks on broken doors. So many ways that locks might become broken, so few of them benign. The sky weeps from above, the ground weeps from below. Behind doors the weeping runs into the night. The song never too sad nor too sorrowful, too slow nor too long. Those that don't weep turn to stone. Always suffering, and suffering alone. Where the tears have fallen mushrooms of many sorts huff and puff and make it their home. Here a hamlet of caps reaching above the grass. Brown slime ball growing from below. Beneath the pines our old friend the agaric sprouting up here and there. Always the agaric always the eskimo watching for where the reindeer go. On the lookout for the yellow snow. Always there is the antennae at the ready, one ear scanning the horizon and one eye wandering freely. Looking about here and there, near and far. It is their great fear. Where is it ? Where is the bear ? Is the wild beast near ? That which will gash and rip and bite and tear. Of pain injury and blood, life’s loss the fear.

For some communities the improvements are the addition of yet more locks and shackles. To all things moveable, to all passages passable. Added to that the breeding of bitey beasts. Fighting and biting and chewing things through. Strewn around the houses and gardens broken things chewed and broken. Riddled with rust and decay. Where they have fallen there they lay. Lying unwanted in whatever which way they may.

Here once were patches of wild bush together with rolling fields and lush green growth. Cows would wander chewing the pasture and doing their business wherever their want may say. Since then houses have sprouted all over everywhere, and gardens occasionally make their appearance. The gardens coming and going, many yet waiting their day to appear. Others gone from sight, waiting their moment to re-appear. Only the saddest and most neglected give up and fade entirely away.

To the south an uneasy cloud hovering over verdant foliage. Snooty sooty choke of the big smoke. Magnet to minors and midges and madges. Creepy creepers climbing their way into the canopy. Forest of vines climbing and dangling from the branches of trees long since gone fallen dead. Died and dried holding up climbers running away from the welcoming earth. Calling its call, come closer, closer, closer to my composting capacity.

The climbers call back – no, no but no. Their wish is to climb all over, and above all others. Twining their way to the top. To have the sun all for their very own, to keep it to themselves. Climbing up and up they go. They wish only to be high, but none wish to be trees. They aren't made of that stuff. Alas alas I cry, who will be a tree in my forest.

The sun looks down from its place in the sky. It wishes to shine down equally on all, and lets out a sigh. The gentle tears fall from above and soak into everything. Some things will reach up and grow, while others decay and go. So too the earth beneath all and supporting all on its strong back. Some take and give, and some take and return nothing at all. Yet the earth it grows all things, and feeds all without distinction.

The trees they all fall with time. Dead they crumble and break, dropping down to the ground. Alive they topple, a great sod of earth in its roots. The vines they fall with them and will fight amongst each other on the ground. They struggle amongst themselves, form a dense mat through which no light can penetrate. The light shines on all with equal abandon, but little of it can get through.

All is not lost though. Not far away the sun shines on the grass. Each and all of it and them, they take it and make it their own delight. They grow greener and greener and shine and smile and dance and wave in the wind. When the opportunity arises, the flowers appear amongst the grasses. Dhalias and daisies and dandelions. Like the stars in the sky. Like childrens faces out playing in the garden.

Amongst them all, the grasses and the weeds and the scrub, none grow more than their allotted size. For some it is their task to grow tall and thin and then fall. Or to clamber and spread over their generous neighbour. To send roots like spaghetti all through those of others. Of these things and so many more. Such is their allotted calling.

Here at this place they grow lush and rich. In the damp soil, in the midst the mist. Amid the tears rolling down and falling from the sky. Rolling down and landing here in this village of the broken hearted. One by one the people packed their things and left. Tramped off into the mountains. Waded out into the sea. Followed the bright lights across the world. Settled down in a house under a great tree.

Sitting in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the last glow of the evenings fire. Meeting the day and taking its duties one thing at a time. Planting wallflowers in a line outside the window. Writing words and then reading what is right. Righting the worlds wrongs and finding the hearts delight.

The trees struggle to reach beyond the grass. Stiff is the oceans breeze. Planting peace in this place here, and everywhere peace will grow. The days come and go, the starry expanse turns, and each day the suns orb comes back from over the skies edge. In the morning gathering to watch it rise, and in the evening watching it go down. Gazing out into the sky, out into the sea, to the stars and into space beyond. The gardens peace blooms and drifts off in all directions on the fragrant breeze.