Land's End
If you start walking west and don’t stop, leaving behind the dealings of man, the tarmaced roads and clipped hedge fences of stripped dreams,
If you keep going and reach the coast, taking the windy path by the turquoise sea, both seductive and dangerous, looking down on waves exploding against ragged rocks and soft sands, sometimes traveling high along towering cliffs topped with spiky heather and sharp brambles flowering a shower of colour all around you, other times low through thick rich green over-hung paths escorted by brown and white butterflies to fields of ferns draped down the steep sides of beachy coves,
When your weary feet throb for rest, carrying on past the frowning crowds of cliff edge cows slowly masticating on their non-existent doom,
Down fragrant clean steamed valleys gurgling under tiny moss ridden stone bridges by white witches’ cottages, gardens filled with medicinal herbs, giant rhubarb and tiger dragonflies.
Pausing briefly to hear a blue capped curly haired weather worn fisherman’s tales of a widow’s woe at the hands of a cruel sea and the shocking cost of house prices these days as his white teeth and blue eyes sparkle in the sun.
Past the castles of long dead kings and the ghostly remains of tin mines marking deep holes.
Sometimes walking like giants, striding over trees like weeds; sometimes like mice, scrambling over peddles like boulders,
Resting occasionally on the sleeping heads of stone trolls embedded in the soil, maybe taking a lock of their mossy hair for luck,
Through the wispy mist seeping out the black broken windowed eyes of abandoned farms covered with stinging nettles and doc leaves,
Eventually you will run out of land.
A head, where, blue nothing stretches away forever across endless waves, whales and basking sharks eating fish spunk and stinking sea weed for thousands of miles until a new world.
There, just beyond souvenirs shops, the laughing seagulls screaming their cream tea crumpet scavenging delight and signs that say “Danger CLIFF”, right on the edge, at the very end, two wizards live.
Who, what with the enlightenment and all, are called Dr Syntax and Dr Johnson.
Dr Syntax makes perfectly formed sentences, in granite, then lets the elements erode them until they tumble away crumbling into the sea.
He is rather highbrow and has eye brows floating a few inches above his particular head.
Dr Johnson has a big top hat that falls over his eyes, in it a cuckoo lays eggs on his head made of cheese that tick and tock and could explode at any moment into parachuting ponchoed parrots but never tell the time.
Dr Syntax finds Dr Johnson’s work trivial and neither laudable nor commendable for any let alone an exemplary modern Wizard.
Dr Johnson finds bananas in his pajamas… plotting… exponential cardboard cutout fanaticism.
They never agree.
If you keep going and reach the coast, taking the windy path by the turquoise sea, both seductive and dangerous, looking down on waves exploding against ragged rocks and soft sands, sometimes traveling high along towering cliffs topped with spiky heather and sharp brambles flowering a shower of colour all around you, other times low through thick rich green over-hung paths escorted by brown and white butterflies to fields of ferns draped down the steep sides of beachy coves,
When your weary feet throb for rest, carrying on past the frowning crowds of cliff edge cows slowly masticating on their non-existent doom,
Down fragrant clean steamed valleys gurgling under tiny moss ridden stone bridges by white witches’ cottages, gardens filled with medicinal herbs, giant rhubarb and tiger dragonflies.
Pausing briefly to hear a blue capped curly haired weather worn fisherman’s tales of a widow’s woe at the hands of a cruel sea and the shocking cost of house prices these days as his white teeth and blue eyes sparkle in the sun.
Past the castles of long dead kings and the ghostly remains of tin mines marking deep holes.
Sometimes walking like giants, striding over trees like weeds; sometimes like mice, scrambling over peddles like boulders,
Resting occasionally on the sleeping heads of stone trolls embedded in the soil, maybe taking a lock of their mossy hair for luck,
Through the wispy mist seeping out the black broken windowed eyes of abandoned farms covered with stinging nettles and doc leaves,
Eventually you will run out of land.
A head, where, blue nothing stretches away forever across endless waves, whales and basking sharks eating fish spunk and stinking sea weed for thousands of miles until a new world.
There, just beyond souvenirs shops, the laughing seagulls screaming their cream tea crumpet scavenging delight and signs that say “Danger CLIFF”, right on the edge, at the very end, two wizards live.
Who, what with the enlightenment and all, are called Dr Syntax and Dr Johnson.
Dr Syntax makes perfectly formed sentences, in granite, then lets the elements erode them until they tumble away crumbling into the sea.
He is rather highbrow and has eye brows floating a few inches above his particular head.
Dr Johnson has a big top hat that falls over his eyes, in it a cuckoo lays eggs on his head made of cheese that tick and tock and could explode at any moment into parachuting ponchoed parrots but never tell the time.
Dr Syntax finds Dr Johnson’s work trivial and neither laudable nor commendable for any let alone an exemplary modern Wizard.
Dr Johnson finds bananas in his pajamas… plotting… exponential cardboard cutout fanaticism.
They never agree.
posted by h at
2:13 am
4 Comments:
How could they?
Their diametrically opposed outlooks make this impossible.
But agreement is overrated.
Coalition to play to their strengths would make the world their Oyster
By
Ultra Toast Mosha God, at 11:51 am
I find God's comment absurd! Agreement is the ultimate value, the only thing the two wizards could agree on. You can't have a coalition without agreement. I disagree.
By
bloggin the Question, at 10:41 am
I think you are both right.
But it is a mute point because Dr Syntax already thinks he is the world's oyster and making the world his oyster would cause an infinite regression which he would find logically unsatisfactory.
And Dr Johnson, who is normally on the wrong end of metaphorical sticks, would turn the world into an oyster.
So even if they could agree they wouldn't agree on what they are agreeing on.
Which is probably for the best.
By
h, at 12:16 pm
Let's all just agree to disagree
By
Ultra Toast Mosha God, at 9:54 am
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