A Wall

19th. January 1999.

A Wall.

I see many things from my stationary position. Exciting active dramatic and yea, merry things. Time ne'er stands still to dull the day.

If I could catalogue the things I've seen, t'would fill a tome the size of which, no man, nay not Samson himself, would have the strength to carry.
From the Earth I came, as all must do, being made again, as all must do, from particles atomic sized, until the day, now long ago, when all the necessary ingredients came together to complete the whole.

Much labours love went into my creation. Fathered by an artisan whose every effort was as though perfection was the only goal. To last forever has a salute to this creator’s manly efforts and thanks to his eternal God.
No shirker he, the man who did create me. Now I stand, one hundred and forty years on, plumb straight, stiff and rigid, a proud cenotaph to my creator’s skill.

I am a wall, ------ made from bricks and mortar, by a craftsman, who with honest labour's loving care did line and level every course, to stand a thousand years. He needs not worry yet, to stir from his deserv-ed heavenly slumbers, to see if his work is standing the test of time, for having set me on a firm foundation, I have not moved a micron out of line.
How dare I, for this man of true integrity applied his skills to building grand cathedrals, ere aging bones brought him to building lowly walls. Yet never once did he apply less loving care in placing every brick.

Much children's laughter have I heard, as ruffian boys climbed and ran across my copings stones, innocent play their only thought; And sorrows too, as later, drums of war called to their young adulthood's patriotic false ideals. Followed closely by the deep lament, from mothers who had nurtured these, never to return, broken bodies; mothers, who cried in anguish and leaned against me for support.

Young maidens pushing make shift prams. Within, and tended with a little mothers' loving care, were dollies from the corn sheaths made, but which to them were every bit as proper as the grandly dressed pot dolls of the wealthy upper grade. These girls I saw, from my silent stand, evolve to women-hood, then life's responsibilities lay heavily on their breasts.

Hard frosts and snow, the worst I can recall, are now attacking at my joints. But who is this? This dark ethereal figure who now passes slowly by? Though silence is expected from a booted foot, at least a deep invading step should show, indented into this pure snow. Yet no human foot shaped depression can be seen.
This darkly shrouded body floating by is none other than my creator. What portends this? Did Valhallah open now it's gates to let the valiant hero ride. Does he see a danger looming that may threaten me? Every joint of mortar his passing eye does scan, but now I see a smile, a smile of deep content as to yonder church he floats, to give the same reassurance as I now feel. I know now that I shall not crumble. All the World is well. Hurry now the joys of Spring.

The end

Copyright Brian Kelly 13th. January 1999 525 words