A site dedicated to G.K. Chesterton, his friends, and the writers he influenced: Belloc, Baring, Lewis, Tolkien, Dawson, Barfield, Knox, Muggeridge, and others.
Friday, November 16, 2007
The fool of the village sat on a wall at the edge of town. He was wearing his long yellow rain coat with the black polka dots. At a distance he looked like a breathing pile of Daises. The rains fell last night. From the sorrow colored sky they fell. They fell with the loud hateful anger born of ignorance. They fell upon the land without mercy. They fell like the giant gleaming curved swords wielded by those wild characters of Ali Babba's old gang, stripping the trees of the last of their meager autumn possessions. “It was to be expected" they would say. No one cried at their passing, no one wore the dark cloths of morning. No one, except two, the fool cried and the sky wore grey. The fool could never accept this ruthless behavior. He felt the shame of the naked trees, the lose of the promise. As the last leaf fell he cried out at the dashing of the dream. "Look at their longing.” He would say to no one, to anyone. No one answered. They all had their collars up and no time to taunt the fool. "What happened? Everything was going so well. Have they heard of this at the palace?!" Again no one heard. No one listened. A bright red bird silently landed beside him on the wall. The only two primary colors in the landscape were now next to each other. The fool laughed.