A Lifetime Of Tides

When I was once young, young and free

The tide already old, tide and the sea

I carved my name on coastal stones

Compacted millennia of ancient bones

The tide rise today is not the same

The ebb flow tomorrow, different again

The tide drifts away, a whispering sigh, 

And the tide returns when the moon is high 

A callow youth, footprints at the sand

Sea salt breezes that kiss the land

Moonrise silver over Pan Haven Bay,

Beckoned waters, dance and spray.

A castle shadow, walls worn with years, 

A warrior, an Odin of the lunar spheres

Who the moon pulls with an invisible thread,

That holds the memories of the sleeping dead.

A draft of eider wings come by

Past the white cliff house on high

Gulls wheel above where breakers gleam,

Fishermen follow, darling dreams.

The tide is a song for ever more

That kisses the rocks upon the shore.

Curlews cry out at the wind-swept sand, 

Their voices entwined with nature's hand. 

At mid tide like midlife, like silver and grey

Those dreams that were written are fading away

A long rocky headlands, salt breezes roam,

Wandering seabirds, calling them home.

But tomorrow’s tide is at oh four twenty-three,

Way too early for a dying man to see.

A final tide plays its age old tricks

At the last knockings of twenty twenty-six

Fallen Twins

They lay side by side. Together probably forever. Emblems and sigils adorned the place. Steel from the bygone age glistened beneath the weak paltry sun.

When they were young, optimism was the all. Yet it was also a well understood obsequious truth that the future was decaying as quick as it was being written. They rode the wave of that rampant decay. Hip priests of the coming dawn ready to lead. Ready to conquer. And they reached far. They held an influence. They fired the torch. 

Of the two, one was called Clarity, the other persisted, unnamed. They started from nothing, dust and spittle underfoot. They rode armoured, through the seven ages of man, gaining wisdom, discarding guilt. Eventually they came to the mountain, they ascended as though it were ordained. They stared to the coast as though it were the simple step. They sucked the flowers, chewed on petals and pollen. From the sea, they sifted the salt and from the soil they counterweighted the coal. The world for them became a budded place. 

But for all else, you and me, light fell from the sky, seed lay barren. Oh yay, we cried. No more. Mortem Tyrannis. And so, they fell.

The Journey From Here To Be

Sometime when, in the pale morning light, Hamlet took Ophelia by the hand. He looked deep into her light blue eyes and spoke thus. 

“I am no longer indifferent honest, we shall take ourselves beyond the river to the diligent sea. Thus, shall we go, lest we spend too long among the dead?”

He dressed her for a journey to the day. Hand by hand they slipped past guarded doors of Elsinore. As they moved through the fields with ardent life to left and right Ophelia turned to him and smiled.

“There is rosemary, for remembrance. Pray you, Hamlet, remember. Oh, and these. These are a wild pansy. They are for thoughts. Think this of me, my love, that I am the blossoming flower”

“Aye, thou ist my deep red tulip!”

They walked on, the burdens of state close forgotten. Abreast of a hill, a wearied traveller advised them of the nearing ocean.

“There,” he said, “is the sea. Beyond that sea, who knows what kingdom waits?”

Hamlet looked at Ophelia. No ghost behind his eyes, no crown, no poisoned cup, no grave waiting. And Ophelia, gathering the wild pansies to her breast, answered,

“To be, Hamlet. Simply to be.”

From there they continued towards the lapping waters. Behind them Elsinore grew smaller in the remembering.

PPPI Gets A Case

He pulled the beret from the hook and fashioned it on his head. Years of wear caused it to fall into the position that it always had. On shutting the front door behind him, he saw his neighbour opening his. Home from the Night Shift. A curt nod echoed between them. They were separated by more than walls. He let his chair free wheel down the ramp before engaging the electric motor. Another nod, this time from the bus driver, his relationship with the bus driver was way better than that with his neighbour. "Hello", he said. It was a mere twenty minute journey into the town centre. He used the time wisely, to do absolutely nothing.

By the time he had reached the office, he had cleared his mind ready to face the coming challenges. He rolled the chair through the widened entrance way. Lights came on automatically. A few moments later, his assistant rolled her way through the door. They decided that tea was the best thing. As they sipped, the Postie appeared with a small bundle. The Postie was an inveterate source of mostly local information, but not today. After tea they sorted the post into three piles; yes, no and oh no. Today the yes pile was the smallest pile. The first two envelopes from the pile turned out to be just general enquiries but the third...

The third was a largest stiff brown envelope. "Bung" said Valerie. "Well, it would pay your wages." said Peter hopefully as he tipped the contents onto the table. There were several sheets of paper two small Ziploc bags and a green labelled key."Okay!" they echoed. On the first sheet of paper was written.

'INVESTIGATE!'

The best way to get a PP philosophical investigation initiated was to shout a lot or feeling that write down an instruction in strong, black capital letters. Peter and his assistant Mary smiled broadly at each other, spread all the papers out and then said almost simultaneously, "We need to call Paul".

The Road To

Peter Plumb became a wheelchair user at the age of 10. A tragic accident, an RTA in officialese. That's what they wrote on his hospital records. He was the passenger, mum and dad in the front seats had died in the ensuing fire. A passing driver had pulled Peter clear. Peter remembered nothing of this. When he came around from the induced coma a couple of weeks later his life had changed.

 

After several further weeks of recovery Peter started to notice the differences. Small at first, he realised that somethings he had previously found difficult were now easy. Well, initially at least, easier. When he returned to school, he suddenly found that subjects that were previously baffling had become straightforward, subjects that he already had a grasp of became staggeringly simple. 

 

Despite his wheelchair complications within two years, he had been moved to a specialist school and within another year he had started a degree in Mathematics and Philosophy and then moved almost seamlessly onto his PhD.

 

Now at the age of almost 19 he sat in his own office, a new office, with PP Philosophical Investigations etched boldly into the door glass. He waits his first client. It has been a long quiet morning and now as he is tucking into a rich bowl of sardine salad, into the office walks a woman. A young woman of indeterminant origins, and without preamble asks in an accented voice, "Of course, you do investigate road traffic accidents?"

The Weevil Eaters

The little people lived in the bole of a tree. Their home is festooned with artifacts taken from everyone within striking distance. The little people have a god, he is called O’Dan. They stole him from the big people. They keep him chained high in their tree. Whenever things are bad they climb the tree to worship him. When times are good the little people ignore him. 

There was the time when the tree was almost overrun with the Greater European Wood Weevil. O’Dan, the god, suggested after a lot of worshipping that the weevil would be good roasted with some butter. The little people ate well for a month. O’Dan was just relieved that they had stopped hitting him. 

The little people understood very little but managed to get by.

DNA Trail

On every Continent Cruiser there is at least one director's carriage. It is true that even on some of the the loops minor connecting lines there are some with corresponding carriages, but they are nothing compared with the ones on the loop. They are known as Mariposa Suites. They are opulence in a society otherwise without gratuitous demonstrations of decadence. They are a widely known secret. They are on occasion the target of the so called extreme luddite faction of the NFTA.

I have never been in one. Until now. A few weeks ago, it was early in the morning before my work day began. My wrist wrap started buzzing wildly. Wildly was a little of an understatement, overwhelming understatement. In fact I hadn't, and no one else I asked had, known they could do that. It scared the shit out of me. Then it started flashing. Wrist wraps are difficult to get off even when you're calm and relaxed. The skin insertions make it difficult. But that's what I tried to do and then when I realised it wasn't doing any harm, I did the relaxing thing. I took deep breaths karma really deep breaths. As I relaxed the buzzing and flashing eased. I realised that a message I was scrolling across the face of the wrap. The message said that I should go to an office in downtown two days later. I did, and now I'm here, about to enter and Mariposa suite.

As I approach the stationery cruiser my wrist wrap glows blue, I've been warned that this would happen. Then as I walk towards the rear carriages the blue changes to a sort of gold colour and the entrance ramp to the sweet folds down. A large, muscled security operative occupies the doorway. He looks intently at my wrist wrap, his eyes change colour to match my wrap. He may not be human. I haven't been warned about that but so many things have happened in the last few days that I wouldn't be beyond surprised. He moves aside, it is my invite inside. I walk cautiously up the ramp, its surface has a gentle give that absorbs my weight I am told that I am to meet with Brendon. Moving into the carriage away from the entrance, interior lighting increases. I realise then why they are called Mariposa, the colours, purples, yellows, pinks and oranges. Contrast with this, the character sat in all white robes. He's overweight and speaks in similar tones. Is Brendon and he is offering me a job. Not a job, so much as work, private work for Brendon. The obvious question and he just smiled, explaining in his flowery manner. DNA trial. My father, I never knew him, carried out similar work for Brendon and others of his like. Successfully, very successfully. I clearly looked bemused because he said, it's in your DNA. We can see it. But I was a simple production line worker, contributing what I could. You will be good at it. Go home and wait. And that is it. 

I'm heading down the ramp when my wrist wrap starts doing the buzzing thing. I take a deep breath and look down. My credit account is increasing rapidly. I have never seen it do that before. I have a feeling I might find that these wrist wraps can do an awful lot more than I ever knew.