GRANDAD AND ME
I was staying with my grandfather upon Cherry Hill. My grandfather's name is Mr. Lawrence-Guthrie-Ogilthorpe and he owns this old mansion on a hill called Cherry Hill. It gives me the creeps. Old estates always do (estate sounds so much more romantic than house). I get a funny feeling that feels like a spider with sixteen legs crawling up my back whenever I am in one, which isn't very often because I live in the city.
Anyway, as I said, or did 1 (?), my grandfather, Mr. Lawrence-Guthrie-Ogilthorpe wrote me a letter on parchment which contained a request asking if 1 would go and stay with him for the weekend. Grandad (I don't call him Mr. Lawrence-Guthrie-Ogilthorpe because he is a close relative and also a person just does not call her grandfather by his whole name if it is a long name because it is too long to say. And I would not call him by a nickname because he doesn't have one. Can you imagine what would happen if you had to call your grandfather by his whole name if it was Mr. Lawrence-Guthrie-Ogilthorpe. I mean can you just imagine, can you?)
I did go and stay with Grandad for the weekend and I had a most pleasantly enjoyable time there. I really did. I say that I did because today is Monday and only Saturday and Sunday is the weekend. As a matter of fact which you might not already happen to know, the week has seven days and the first day is Sunday, the last Saturday. The next day after Saturday is Sunday and then six days after that it is Saturday again. That is very queer I think; maybe there should not be seven days in a week. Maybe there should be nineteen days in a week and not only seven. I mean, maybe there should. I guess that a long time ago some person who thought he was a genius (maybe he was) christened the names of the week to be what they are now. Perhaps the names should be something else. Maybe there really are nineteen days in one week instead of seven. When you think about it, I might have a point there, mightn't 1?, I mean I really might. Seeing as how nobody except me ever doubts that there are seven days in a week, I won't complain. What I mean to say is, why should I complain? It probably wouldn't do any good to complain anyway, would it?
As I said before, the weekend is made of Saturday and Sunday and I visited my Grandad on those two days of the week on a hill which is known to the common neighbourly people as Cherry Hill.
Sometimes, when I take time out to think about the time when I visited my Grandfather yester- day, I wonder why. Now if I asked you what would you say? Honestly, would you say it was because he wrote me a letter on parchment inviting me,
or do you think that even if he hadn't
asked me that I would have all of a sudden got
an idea in my head and said to myself
"Lille-marie Guthrie-Ogilthorpe, go visit your oldest
and most famous relative, Mr. Lawrence-Guthrie-Ogilthorpe
Now being a person who gets ideas on the spur of the moment, I could easily have thought of the idea I just told to you. What do you think, I mean, what do you honestly think?
It's summer - people come and go. Fat ladies and skinny men sitting on the sand and looking around with envious or disapproving (and very rarely with approving) eyes at the slim, beautiful girls in the daring bathing suits and the young handsome boys trying to attract their attention. People, all kinds of them, turning in the sun to get a well done tan on both sides. Children splashing in the water, tossing pebbles and building castles in the sand. The beach is a picture of life. Life in bright and flashy colours, in loud and joyful noises. Life in the warmth of the summer sun, in the splash of the blue water. People under colourful sunshades listening to the radio or relaxing while licking ice-cream cones. Life in the tall proud green trees and in the birds singing and filling the air with an unequalled harmony.
And the time passes, now. ..
It's winter - There is not a living soul for miles. The sea is cold and angry, and hugh waves beat savagely at the beach. The beach is lonely, desolate, dead. Gone are the glorious days of people, noises, colours and sunshine. The trees are naked and haggard. The branches, brown and dead, weigh heavily and point humbly to the ground. Birds do not sing here anymore. There is only a pitiful remnant of what once was a skilfully built castle in the sand. The waves will erase every trace of it, denying its ever having existed. There is no noise except for the mournful wailing of a sea-gull in the distance. Summer is gone, and with life has faded its sweet and painful memories.
Black, iridescent lagoon there still
and between the arms, long-running
sweat-restless fists, spaces dotted
with heads. Green stomping, throbbing
energy, palm saplings on coarse blades.
half dangerous path, peeling bare backs
weighted, startled, calmed, the eyeing
Spattered gold in the light of day.