Each day he rose from bed at six, and made them both a cup of tea, “It’s looking cold” he might remark, or “Dawn is still some time away”. He was a man of fixed routine, who liked to live predictably, and somewhere far beyond his gaze, stood the mighty Pyramids, memorials of a passing life: homes to pharaohs long since dead and provisioned for eternity.
Each day, as he had for years, he sat before his office desk, working on electoral roles at town hall offices near his home, watching the names come and go, swept from view by births and deaths and talked about the voting age, and far beyond these offices , the torrent flowed inscrutably between some challenged banks and then became Niagara Falls witnessed by the awestruck crowd who stood and ate their sandwiches
Every year it was the same; he planted out his vegetables, potatoes furthest from the lawn and up against the garden fence, a decent crop of runner beans and always near at hand, pleasing in its growing bulk, grew a marrow, exhibit at the village show. A shadow crossed the window frame, his wife was always at her chores and then, far beyond his view, a mighty iceberg broke away and started slowly on it’s voyage, populated by some birds, and even by a polar bear, watched by a passing ship where tourists stared and sniffed the air, and wondered at it’s growling might
On Sunday’s they might take a walk, depending on the time of year, and nodding at familiar sights, or share a coffee with some friends and talk with them on this and that, and share the news that neighbours share and far away, beyond their sight, the people of the Himalayas, shielded from the bitter cold, raise their eyes in quiet respect and trace the mountains carved by ice and forces from the earth below, on which they stand, respectful of it’s mysteries
And in the evening, home at last,sitting at their evening meal she might raise her eyes to him, and in their depth, for all to see was all the wonder of his life, that she with gentle empathy, soft as the light from shining stars, might share with him her purest gift; a love of rare simplicity,
I feel that there is more to be told about this man, this couple. Very enjoyable!
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Very cleverly written. I feel the complexity of the simplicity.
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Beautifully written. Poetic
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That is lovely. Thank you.
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This read like a poem, the rhythm as such, a poetic view of this man and his life, what a lovely story 🙂
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Beautiful, lyrical writing, and packed with allusion. Would enjoy reading more of this narrative.
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This is a poem! And I only read the other comments after Id written this! Beautiful.
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lyrical
beautiful.
this is meant to be read aloud.
your words roll off the tongue like butter.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX KISS from Duluth.
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This is a simple, down to earth tale, I feel, which says so much more. In the midst of everything you have managed to put your finger exactly on where the really important things ib life reside. Beautiful and poetic.
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The rhythm lulls you not to sleep but to the wonder of this simple life. Excellent.
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Dear Peter,
I think storytellers are special people and I have been gifted with infrequent opportunities to listen to the stories of elders. Those storytellers, like you, who weave together a description of life events through characters that captivate readers have what so many of us leave behind in childhood – an active imagination. Even if we do preserve our imagination few of use have the skills that wordsmiths posses.
I want you to know that though I am an introverted reader who doesn’t engage with you in discussion boxes I do engage with the content. I enjoy reading your stories so much Peter. I remain much the same as the little girl I once was, captivated by artistry and saying a silent “thank you” to the storytellers, the special people.
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This was so beautiful Peter. Love, love, loved x
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Sweet story. I knew you when …. when is the book coming out I cannot wait.
Jane
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I agree – a poem in motion. A poem in moment.
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Outstanding!
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I love this timeless understanding. A connectedness to what has and will happen. Well done, Peter.
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Love this story, a nice snippet of life.
Meanwhile, I had never heard of marrows until a decade or so ago. Monstrous!
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Peter, I had missed a few of your stories, an eternity between tales, this moment, this place you paint, has filled that time away beautifully.
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man is a creature of habits.
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You dear Peter just wrote my parents life story. THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.
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I feel like I just sat around a warm fire listening to you tell this beautiful story ❤
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