A FOREST SCENE

Misunderstanding by one generation of the thoughts of the next...

A FOREST SCENE

Picture the woodland path, like some fairytale ribbon winding between a forest of trees, cow parsley and daisies and May blossom and snub-nosed clover lining the route like random jewels scattered by some benevolent deity on the wild world.

Hear the birdsong, echoing like a symphony through the trees and from near and far, loud and quiet, fortissimo and andante, and then the rustling of the least of breezes through the undergrowth, percussive and sibilant.

Picture the children, hand in hand, brother and sister maybe, she in a pretty lemon gingham dress, her free hand clutching a smiling rag doll, and he in his schoolboy shorts, catapult dangling from an untidy pocket, one sock up and one sock down, the two of them walking now, then skipping together, then walking again.

Picture the old man following along behind, pee-stains on his grubby trews and wispy grey hair matted down by the grease of ages. Picture the children as they look back and stare, then, still hand-n-hand, start running on, not walking, not skipping, moving on, fast as only the young can be.

Hear them laugh, their trilling voices rising above the song of the thrush and the cry of the blackbird, even dominating the call of the wood pigeon. Hear their words, knives of sound that penetrate on old heart. Names, half-heard hurtful names, untrue, reflecting nothing but the prejudices of people who might know better, but don't.

Hear him weep, that old man, knowing many things: that he is old, that he is untidy �" dirty, even, that he was bruised and bled too much �" but not knowing himself, his dirt, his scent.

I lost my heart in the wars, he whispers to himself, pausing by a rugged oak and leaning on it, sharing his weight for a moment, and his lost heart. I raged across the foreign fields for brats like those, he continued, and the foul foe pricked me with his blade, and I bled. He stared at the backs of the two pretty children, now far ahead of him. I bled for them, for their right to live unfettered by prejudice and hatred, and so they live. But they still have prejudice and they still know hatred, for those twin comrades are aimed at me!

He sunk to the ground, and suddenly found himself to be weeping. His tears flowed uncontrollably, and the birdsong and the clover couldn't quench that sorrow.

I wasted my strength and my life, he moaned, I wasted the essence of me, and not once do the little ones smile my way, not once do they call me grandfather, for that would acknowledge me and soil their little lives because of it.

And he either slept or died where he sat, the music of the forest all around him, and its musky fragrance, and far ahead the pretty children paused and looked a long way behind them with eyes sharp as diamonds.

“He's gone,” said the girl,

“Grandfather's gone,” agreed the boy,

“Shame,” said the girl, and she kissed her doll and they carried on down the raven, rook-lined path between the forest trees to another world, where old men and their wars were forgotten and the people smiled.

“I loved him,” whispered the boy….

© Peter Rogerson 25.05.12

Reviews

[DIVYA]

Once again, I marvel at the depths of your thought and your imagination. How beautifully you portrayed the gap in perception, the misgivings/misunderstandings between the two generations. Indeed, we may never know what the other is thinking of us. So often, we assume things and attribute attitudes to others and in the process give ourselves so much grief. Well done with the message and I'll be back soon again to dip into your treasure box of lovely stories. Thank you so much for sharing and have a wonderful day.

[Peter Rogerson]

So you've traliled me back 8 years! Thanks or all your interest. I very much appreciate it

[DIVYA]

I hope you don't mind. I just like your stories. Simply written and the best on this site. Thank you for sharing. :)

[Peter Rogerson]

of course I don't mind. It's lovely having somebody appreciating my stuff. I try to write every day as a mens of not sinking into senility in my old age1

[DIVYA]

Its a great way of keeping the mind sharp and in the process others get something great to read. Keep sharing please.

[Sebastian Falzarano]

This is sad, which I like. It gives the reader something to connect with. Very well written, I might say. But I have a question: is this a poem or a short story? Either way, I like it. Keep up the good work!

[Peter Rogerson]

That's an interesting question. I suppose it has some of the qualities of verse, but it's a short story. Thanks for taking the time to submit a review.

[Sebastian Falzarano]

Your welcome. I like doing this. Can you head over to my poem "Brave Man's Death" and tell me what you think? Thank you!

[Peter Rogerson]

Of course I will