martes, 9 de agosto de 2011

By the apple trees of Anon


And from the train, where the tracks had slid me down through the seasons, colour burst at my pupils, 
but I could not know it. A line had been cast.
(9th may 2011)

Sealed, white
rime crisped your beard,
godless wire filigree framing
You, the selfish giant

No blood seeped the rippling
of snow blossoms, ice encrusted
at your pores.
No child played by your apple tree

Motionless dream,

frozen at the pillow,
Where you lay woven
in your creaking bed
Of wicker willow.

Image: Jose Luís Pérez

""I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
What did he see?"


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