05 December 2007

Self Epitaph

This is utterly unlike me and I wouldn't think of posting except it gets me inside and a breather from hideous yardwork.

I woke around 5am still with a clear memory of a dream and this silly 'verse'.

I was in flat countryside with workers in the distance in what looked like paddy fields.

A voice was intoning some lines and a stonemason a few feet away was transcribing them onto a headstone.

I felt the voice's hand on my shoulder and I didn't want to turn round because I thought it might be my father. It wasn't his voice but it *could* have been in the post-Pearly Gates timbre they give you.

It was delivered very calmly.

I've edited and changed it as the day's gone on ...

I'm so tired. Where can I sit for a view?
Here will do. You go about your chores
And we can meet up later, for petits fours
It was such a silly rhyme, I worried about laughing.

The stonemason was trying to finish it to some deadline and kept looking across at me as if the words were a portrait that required getting my likeness right.

When he'd finished it, he laid it on his lap and the voice said, 'Now he must hurry' and I was led down towards the paddy workers where they pointed me towards a mini worldwind that scooped me up and whisked me waking to my bed.

I sat up, grabbed a pen and marveled that I'd use petits-fours when i don't even know what they are. Some sort of After Eight post-dinner sweetmeats, no?

I'll Google and add.

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