Sunday 22 August 2010

The Times they are Prosaic.

The harvest moon is only a month away.

By the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy.

Not these days. Now they drone noisily around the fields in heavy tractors with those big headlighty things mounted on the roof of the cab, shattering the serenity of the rural night. And then they race up the lane sounding like the Devil’s flatulence personified.

One of them nearly ran me over when I went for a walk after dark tonight.

Oh for the days when ploughmen lived on nought but bread and cheese, reapers laboured around the clock with their silky scythes, and beautiful women got locked up in remote towers for nice young chaps to go and rescue. Where’s the poetry gone?

2 comments:

Maria Sondule said...

You know, there hasn't yet been a story about a man being locked in a tower desperately awaiting his true love warrior princess to come rescue him.
And i bet nice chaps didn't rescue them. Everyone knew the beautiful women were in towers, so that's the first place I would go if I were a dirty pervert. Then I could just leave her in the tower and "forget" to come back.

JJ said...

See, I said you were a cynic!

Actually, that could be why a lot of my stories have a strong female character, usually other-wordly, taking a dominant role in comparison with a male protagonist. Maybe I'm seeking balance.