Stillness in movement

Here we looked at aspects of our moving world that stay still.

Write a short story or poem from the perspective a statue / building / monument / tree. What has happened during their ‘lifetime’, what have they seen?

Old Oak in the Grove

by Mira Mookerjee

The ones I remember most are those who have taken time to stay. To feel the wind rise; to watch my leaves fall and bud anew. I sometimes wonder if they can feel the echoes of others beneath the earth too – (my roots twisting closer as they whisper, sending energy, sympathy, food).

Sometimes those moments appear from the depths and drift into view – an old woman sitting, her head a silver nest, her face soft, and the shadows falling across her cheeks. A young man in glasses glancing at her, noticing something beneath her years – the child still hiding there that reminds him of he.

I have heard bomb blasts, seen a fire burning on the hill. The howl of sirens and the silence that followed – and then, quietly, the life that spread again and grew.
I remember a couple etching their initials into me. The grind of the knife, their eyes dancing, and something blooming there too – but burnt just as easily as what grew high on the hill.

I know a woman with long dark hair, her palm pressed against me, the sunlight that streamed from her touch, and the earth that lived inside her too.

I remember those that have tried to climb me, and the cracks their weight has made, and I know the feel of winter’s rain. I remember the taste of cider in summer from discarded cans, and I can recall all the objects that lie buried at my feet – the toy soldiers, the matchstick boxes, a love letter.

I know days, years, decades; the feel of time flooding through me and etching rings into my skin. Memories of frozen winters and birds huddled close, days of heat dancing on my leaves, leaving me only green.

I know life that has flowed before me, pulled in a never-ending line, rushing to beat the morning, that always arrives on time.

It will come to me

by Angela Baker

It will come to me
             What do I need?     What is my baseline?
Air-Nectar?        Shelter-love?
      Oxygen-company?   ………..Water-light? 
                                                                            It will come to me…..

What do I fear?
                              What is my worst nightmare?
Empty-silence?               
                                 Lonely-Oxygen?
Dark-company,    ……..    Hateful -exposure?
That too…..WILL COME TO ME

What do I imagine,
                                          What are my archetypal shadows?
Death-in-a-loop, 
                                      Alive-but-buried,
Negative Company?,…..
A thick slick of stifling wind……..ALL or I AM NOTHING
This WILL come to
                                       ….PASS.

Framed for gossip

by Joao Godinho

Every night, after closing time, the Central Hall comes alive with colour and cattiness.

“I heard Madame de Pompadour’s frame has cracks,” whispered Madame Moitessier, elegantly adjusting her painted pearls.

“Oh please,” scoffed The Ambassadors in unison. “She’s been hung longer than a bad wallpaper sample.”

The Fighting Temeraire, wedged stoically between a Romantic seascape and a smug still life, groaned loudly.

“Must we do this every night?” “I was towed to my grave with more dignity than this conversation.”

“Lighten up, old timer,” chirped The Hay Wain away from Room 34. “You're just salty 'cause you're not in bloom like the Sunflowers.”

“I’m mist, symbol and history,” Temeraire growled. “I don't do blooming.”

Madame Moitessier flared. “Honestly, you baroque types are so tempera-mental.”

The Ambassadors chuckled. The Sunflowers giggled. Even The Arnolfini Portrait cracked a smile, just shy of a little laughter.

The Temeraire huffed. “If I wanted gossip, I’d hang in the staff lounge with the espresso machine.”

“Splendid idea,” bellowed Mehmet the 2nd., “Maybe you can take on water from the watercooler and reliably sink for good.”

The Temeraire rolled his eyes, cheerlessly, “You lot are a disgrace to the arts. I'm going to pay my respects to The Virgin.”

Bacchus, presiding over his crowd, chipped in, filled with blatant innuendo: “Yes, go PAY your respects. And don't pretend you're going there for the rocks...”

Laughter echoed through the halls, loud enough to make the night guard glance at the CCTV... and then quietly pretend he saw nothing.