Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 100

There comes a time when shared self-reflection seems useless and indulgent, self-indulgent.

The sun is out. There is a gentle breeze. Building materials scattered across the lawn by the house. Yesterday, M and A made small greenhouses out of plastic boxes damaged in the house move, because many of the plants M started in the mini-propagator have already grown too large for it, especially the sweet corn. She also planted some seeds from a pepper from the supermarket, and a small seedling has poked itself through the soil. Nature is stronger than human progress. It always will be. A different imperative.

There is an unreal quiet over the houses today. Like something is about to happen. A storm of many kinds? A freeing of everything? A sudden end to the war? The world hopes for all these things. This country hopes for all those things. Something unexpected. Children’s voices from two gardens down the hill. Music from two gardens up the hill. The sun is unexpectedly warm. Words difficult, as usual. Clouds crossing the sky like stately ships or space ships. Maybe it’s a disguised invasion. But it’s too pretty for that. But then prettiness camouflages many less than pretty things. Posturing, lying, flattery. But the clouds aren’t flattering, nor posturing, nor lying. Although it won’t belong before someone does invent a weapon that looks like clouds.

A combat helicopter does its rounds, and drowns out the drone of the huge bumble bee by the house, the birdsong, the children’s voices, the music, the butterfly wings’ fluttering, the pulse of nature. An allegory? It disappears beyond the northern horizon, under the clouds, and the echo of its engine fades. At least it isn’t followed by a squadron of more war machines. The country is still for a moment. Other sounds resurface. Normality is restored. For the moment. Higher, high above the clouds, invisible machinery floats through the atmosphere. There will be no warning when its wings unfold.

A pastoral lie, this semblance of peace. The green, the colours, the mildness of temperature and scene.

Odd, how empty descriptions are without emotion. Objectivity is a desert.




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