Saturday, 25 October 2014

Narrative - excerpt from 'The boy at the Window'

We sat on Sundays,  high up by  the roots of the knobbled beech tree, careful not to get our Sunday best worse.   The castle hung in the distance, anchored by pristine lawns that glistened in the early morning  sun. That held the castle a distant nirvana.  Untouchable,unreachable.  Shuttered blinds that guarded the Major’s privacy.

We were more interested in what went on below.  The Moyola , it's honey browned waters burbling blindly over the weir, fattened by the rains of late Autumn.   Gorged on leaves from falling foliage, the swirl and foam all working together at the edge of the weir.
It's razor sharp edge awaiting.   We watched with all the uneasiness of Sunday,s service children mumbling  prayers and humming hymns.  Restless on uncomfortable bums.