Seasonal performances in a Greek theatre
Act one: Spring Traitor This late frost breaks the brittle bones of morning, a traitor queen in matted ermine, treason in her heart, teasing a return to nights huddled by dog grate embers; taunting ears too eager to catch the blackbird’s first notes of daffodil song; those shy spectral arpeggios drifting from distant orchards on April’s ghost-breath. Why this deceit, this plot to unfoot the unwary? A game of musical chairs with a gothic twist. The human bio clock mirrors natural circadian rhythms; Its heartbeat marks the iambic pentameter of life’s to and fro, where pendulum swing is regular, strong; the seasonal flow restores an expected status quo - but not this year! Act Two: Summer’s last dance Spent coils of sunlight dream of Swan Lake; ochre, copper, alizarin crimson tutus, fading mosaics of wilted glory; spent leaves still perfecting their sautés, pliés, jetés …. veteran ballerinas at the barre. Deciduous trees weave a defiant last waltz, rich jewels shimmying to the beat of earth’s rhythmic pulse. Late summer zephyrs join the revelry, whipping up the spiral, drawn into frenzied tarantellas… A fieldworker beats time, his spade splitting the clay with the rhythmic shuff, shuff of a proud drum. Silent tears roll as the curtain falls and a Judas tree bends low in arabesque over summer’s mouldering grave. Notes to self on observing a village funeral The village street is teeming with black crows, wings spread wide as they hop and step with an odd gait towards the church.The bells are tolling slowly, solemnly, as is fitting, yet observing from the upstairs window I now see that in reality they are not crows but people. The men wear Trilby hats, firmly perched on serious heads, bodies swathed in dark woollen coats, collars up against the sharp slap of the winter gale.They hold hands in a protective way with their womenfolk, dressed a little more boldly with tweed skirts flipping out from beneath black capes, a jaunty feather flying from a grey hat or a tartan shawl poking out, escaping from around a dowager’s neck. They surge, like the current of a flooding river - heads down, intent only on arriving at the church before the cortège. It could be a portrait from a pre-war era, when villagers en masse would march along to church in crocodile formation, eager to pay their last respects to the deceased, be he high -ranking or lowly in status. It mattered not, death was, (is), a leveller, a unifier. We can’t escape it. There is maybe a soupçon of schadenfreude behind the grim faces:Thank God it’s not me ! Yes, we are all guilty of that. Flushed cheeks belie the relief occupying their brains - not me, not yet! Observing the scene, I feel I have no right to be here. Am I like a peeping Tom, up to no good? With irreverent haste I whip the net curtain across, bob as I cross myself at an imaginary altar and say two Ave Marias for good luck, just in case……
Flight of the dragonfly 