The Procession

It is bright outside, the birds are twittering like childish laughter; the sun is bursting with light and the young boy is full of youth and vigour. He tears open the curtains and looks out at the splendid day and thinks about the happy games he is going to play.

It is bright outside; the birds are flying about and flapping like angels in the bright blue sky; the sun is flinging all its golden rays wide and the young boy, full of youth and vigour runs, waterfall like, downstairs; throws on his jacket and runs out to play.

He runs round the garden but it is not simply a garden; it is the forest of Sherwood with merry men hiding behind every tree; it is the Jungle of Tarzan and the white clouds are herds of white Elephants roaming over a blue savannah. It is the garden of a boy’s imagination; a magical place.

It is gloomy outside; the birds seem silent; the sky is grey and dull and rain is falling, regimentally, down and a man full of cares and worries peers out from behind his bedroom curtains whilst shaving stubble from his face. He looks at the grey day and thinks of his grim life and stormy days ahead.

It is gloomy outside; the birds are huddled in the branches of trees; the sky is full of ominous dark clouds and a man pestered by the problems of his life trudges slowly downstairs, pulls on his long dark coat then, readying himself, seizes his black briefcase and strides out into the rain.

He walks through the garden to the gate without stopping to look at the trees or the flowers or the birds. His imagination is now filled with ordinary fears that, nonetheless, seem to loom as tall as fairytale giants and if he ever thinks of the magical place his garden used to be it is simply to chuckle and think, “What an innocent fool I was”.

It is bright outside; the birds are singing again only now their song seems like a wonderful symphony of youth and the sun in the sky seems like the glow of life touching everything in the world and an old man clinging more tightly to life and treasuring his waning vigour respectfully draws back the curtains and feels the warm gold upon his wrinkled face and smiles as he looks at the splendid day and remembers and imagines the happy days when he used to run and play.

It is bright outside; the birds are gliding majestically across the wide blue ceiling of the earth; the sun is touching and filling everything with the glow of life and, picking up his walking stick, he takes slow, unsteady steps towards the stairs, noticing everything about the stairs and the hallway, every crack in the plaster as he moves a step at a time downstairs then, reaching the bottom of his stairs, leans his walking stick against the bannister and hoists down his jacket, struggling to get his arms into the holes and to do up the buttons, things he would have done without thinking before his stroke, then picking up his stick again, he perseveres towards the door and opens it.

He walks around the garden at a leisurely pace, trying to scoop up as much of every moment as he can, noticing everything; every dew drop upon every flower and every bird; his only dark cloud, the regrets he has that he wasted so much of his youth.

It is bright beyond. The curtain of death is drawn back by the hand of an angel; angels are singing in a choir and, peering out through an old man’s eyes, the spirit sees an eternal garden filled with flowers of peace and love and wisdom and, above him, unlimited skies of ethereal blue.

It is bright beyond; the blue skies are filled with thousands of angels; angels that were always there, unseen; the bright sun is a divine hand spreading golden fingers over the world and a spirit now filled with an eternal youth and an inextinguishable vigour leaves behind a tired old body and goes out to play in the garden of heaven.