Oh the old old note of the cricket,
Blood blooming on the altarstone,
And the cry of the lonely bird over the green silence of the pool.
- Georg Trakl, 'Song Of The Western Countries'
Bloodstone
The smell of a graveyard is something you have missed. Cold stone. Rotting leaves and cobwebs. The past lying undisturbed, such a rarity in these times. Take care or else you might get trampled by the mindless bulls stampeding to the next new thing, and the next after that.
You can see the appeal of the old Compton homestead; Bill's reason for returning. So he says.
He is almost at his front step before you make your presence known.
'Bill Compton, I heard that you lost a relative. Allow me to extend my condolences.'
Triumph - such a petty emotion, but deeply satisfying nonetheless - trickles through your blood as you take in Bill's expression.
'Eric.' Hostility, surprise, and - oh yes - fear.
'You've always been no trouble for me, Bill. The leopard isn't changing his spots, is he?'
THE END
30 September 2008