Sunday, 17 February 2013

A Very Old Joke


Rodney Hill stared through the windscreen, trying to make some sign of the road through the rain, but the water was rising now and the worn and broken tarmac was hard to discern through the shadow

'Are you sure this is the right road' Sally asked: her only answer being a shake of the head.

The sat-nav had failed thirty minutes ago, before the diversion signs had mysteriously run out, leaving the newly wed couple forced to improvise until they had come to this: lost and nearly stranded, most likely some distance from their destination.  Sally looked at the ring on her finger, still uncomfortable.  It was hard to believe that they were now Mr And Mrs Hill of 2 The Crescent, Toxteth.  All the lines of wedding guests floated before her now, each face seeming to tell her she was too young...

A flash of lightning tore through the sky, like the flash of the wedding photographer's camera and she pointed with excitement to the sign saying "Hotel".  It was faded and a little in need of paint, but it was obviously not neglected.  Rodney nodded and turned the engine back on, turning into the drive.

The door was answered by a servant who could only have been supplied by Henchmen-R-Us, sending a chill through both their spines: but before Rodney could pull her back to the car they were inside, their wet clothes dripping over the cold stone floor.  

There was strange music playing from a room nearby, all discords and combinations of keys that could easily have been created by a drunken spider wearing hob-nail boots.  Rodney followed the servant, not knowing what else to do, all the time trying desperately to get the message through to the seemingly deaf assistant, 'Er hello,' he called, 'My name is Rodney, and this is my wife, Sally Hill: we just want to use your telephone and then we'll be gone'

The door of the main hall opened with a bang and they found themselves in a long gothic cathedral with a single figure seated at the far end, playing - if such a word could be used in unison with the sound emerging - the organ with all the precision of a man trying to fix a watch with a lump hammer.

Before they could move any further into the room the ground gave way beneath them, sending them falling into the abyss.  There was a single shriek from each of them and then nothing but silence as their bodies crashed to the spikes below.

The sound began to rise as the musician (again, term used about as loosely as the word "useful" has ever been applied to anyone in political office) increased his speed and volume and slowly the couple began to rise from the ground, the spirit returning to their bodies and the wounds beginning to heel.

With a grin the player threw back his head and began to sing, "Theeeeee Hills come allivve......with the sound of music...."


(really, really, really sorry)

Monday, 4 February 2013

The Book Of Love (A Magpie Tale)

A Magpie Tale

Sometimes I think I can see the shadows 
of the glitterball 
as I flick through the Non-fiction books

I can still hear the echoes
of the music
but no one turns to look

at the ghosts of the dancers as they step out
from the shadows
 and they pick up and move to the beat

to the dewey-decimal two-step
as it echoes
till the lady at the desk hears their call

and turning her pages
she fixes her glasses
and shushes them back to the wall

(this poem is inspired by the fact that my parents met at a dance-hall that is now a library)