AnElephantCant pretend to feel upbeat
Perhaps it’s the dour Scottish weather
To make himself feel brighter
He writes something lighter
Then heads off for a romp in the heather
Time for the next Līgo Haībun Challenge .
The chosen topic for this week (starting 18th May) is Bells:
He raises his head expectantly when he hears the bells.
They have a sonorousness which he does not fully understand, but he knows when they ring she will come skipping out the door.
She always looks so young at these times, wearing a pretty bright dress, gloves and a hat.
And, although she seems in a hurry, she always has time to speak to him, promising him his heart’s desire on her return.
Then she steps out briskly towards the high steeple which makes the noise.
The door opens.
He struggles to his feet, delight emanating from every fibre of his being.
But she does not come dancing out.
Instead the men re-emerge, carrying a long narrow box between them.
They carry it to the first of the black cars waiting at the roadside.
Somehow he knows she will not come again.
His heart breaks as he turns back to his kennel.
the death of love
is nature’s reminder
of life’s inevitable futility
Bitter sweet and pulling at my heart strings. Very good.
Then AnElephant is content!
Wonderfully written, engrossing. I just posted and see there is a slender common thread here.
Thanks Eric, I did enjoy your piece too.
Magnificently sad! Beautifully poignant! Painfully moving!
Thanks, Penny, praise from you means so much.
Yours also to me, my friend!
Beautiful and sad.
Hi Elephant, Do let me know if you can view the other links? Thanks:)
lovely narrative. a painful ending. As you said in the haiku, life loses its meaning with the loss of something so valuable.
Thank you, Nightlake, your invitation and visit are appreciated.
And the heart takes to wings.
inevitable indeed and so sad.
Beautifully narrated. 🙂
Thank you for your visit and very kind words.
Very sad but touchingly beautiful
Thank you, Jemmy, much appreciated.
Tres beau, triste, vrai, inevitable.
La beaute de l’art n’enleve pas
le dechirement impitoyable
Qui suit a petit pas.