2 Nov


breeze photo: Breeze (Aphophisis) Apophysis-080426-27.png
  Aaron paused on his slow and painful stroll down a road he’d never seen before. It meandered towards a distant village with its churchyard 3that would be new to him should he ever reach it. It wandered past hedges and gates and trees that were all strangers to him. He even came upon the ruts in its surface with a kind of shock, not expecting them to be there.
Aaron sat on the stump of a fallen tree that someone had sawn off smooth last year, and sighed.
“I wish I knew where I was going,” he whispered to himself.
The gentle breeze formed itself into a mouth and whispered back... I could tell you if you’re sure you really want to know…
He heard the words, and nodded.
“I set off eighty years ago,” he sighed.
Eighty-one... The breeze was adamant, but then the breeze had been there forever.
“And after eighty … eighty-one … years of struggle I don’t think I could take another step… it’s all too much … my aching back, my poor old legs, my worn out knees…”
The breeze did a little dance with a troupe of fallen leaves and dust, stirred them up a bit, laughed when they laughed, tickled Aaron under his chin.
I’ll tell you when you get there… it’s not so far now, not so far at all, I’ll help you if you like…
“Help me? You can help me? Please … please help me, then.”
What a gift for a little breeze like me … and the mischievous fragment of wind, the lilting breeze, drew itself up until it was as big as any breeze could ever be, became tall and mighty but still as gentle as a tiny wind might hope to become, and embraced old Aaron. It tucked its arms about him, airy, fairy arms, and whispered lean on me, old friend…
Then in a frolic it picked him up, light as a feather, it thought, and old as the hills, and carried old Aaron so that his feet were a foot above the ground and his heart was grateful.
“This is living!” chortled the old, old man, “this is luxury! Why couldn’t I do this before? Why did I have to wait until my fevered mind begged before I could have a ride like this…?
We’re nearly there, sang the breeze, just a moment more… come on, now, one last surge and I’ll put you down as light as any feather…
And the breeze did just that. The breeze put him down as light as a plume of down. It rested him as if he were no more than a wisp of gossamer…
And Aaron opened his eyes, first one then both of them.
HERE LIES AARON LIGHTLY, he read, and it was etched in old stone, and crumbling, THESE EIGHTY ONE YEARS…
© Peter Rogerson 2.11.14


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