(The title Old Man in Hat has been changed to After the Wake, for reasons that will become apparent, or perhaps not).
As the crow flies, soaring, the legless man dreams of pig-sty stew and ripe melon. A cackling cooksfooted warbler wrens and swallows, too much rain and sleet, ladlefuls of over cooked lamb and fricassee. He too will sacrum to the succor, mouthwatering stew-pot beans and meat off the hoof. Its never too late to learn a new culinary trick, pots and pans and skillet black skillets forged from tinsmith iron and undying regret. Up from the shins to the copse of the knee, right back of where the thorns branch out, tributaries of least resistance and a poke in the chin. He couldn’t recall if he could remember a thing, not that it would make a difference, him with his checkered shirt and dun-rubber waders. ‘Wait up a little’ he boohooed, ‘I can’t make the left turn when its veering to the right’. Never one to pass up a good rejoinder, he commoved to the right, never once blinking an eye or batting a lid.
A feat defying sky, windy and leaf-blown. Mornings like these reminded the man in the hat just how indifferent the sky could be, and how his da never wore the same work shirt twice, telling him how pedestrian and low cultured it made a man look. He shoed, the soles of his boots cobbled with pebbles, and left his lean-to.
As the crow flies, soaring, the legless man dreams of pig-sty stew and ripe melon. A cackling cooksfooted warbler wrens and swallows, too much rain and sleet, ladlefuls of over cooked lamb and fricassee. He too will sacrum to the succor, mouthwatering stew-pot beans and meat off the hoof. Its never too late to learn a new culinary trick, pots and pans and skillet black skillets forged from tinsmith iron and undying regret. Up from the shins to the copse of the knee, right back of where the thorns branch out, tributaries of least resistance and a poke in the chin. He couldn’t recall if he could remember a thing, not that it would make a difference, him with his checkered shirt and dun-rubber waders. ‘Wait up a little’ he boohooed, ‘I can’t make the left turn when its veering to the right’. Never one to pass up a good rejoinder, he commoved to the right, never once blinking an eye or batting a lid.
A feat defying sky, windy and leaf-blown. Mornings like these reminded the man in the hat just how indifferent the sky could be, and how his da never wore the same work shirt twice, telling him how pedestrian and low cultured it made a man look. He shoed, the soles of his boots cobbled with pebbles, and left his lean-to.
2 comments:
You saw this? Happy Days by Samuel Beckett is at the NAC, pay what you can rate Sept 16.
Yes siree, I'm going (buried up to the neck in sand) Wednesday evening.
Was at the NAC Monday for The Marriage of Figaro.
Stephen
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