Never Underestimate Old Bones
Jude Brigley
In the forest it is assumed I can no longer be trusted. Not with the gathering of berries. Not with the choosing of leaves. Not with the rounded pebbles. My white hair is a flag in the wind. The men cannot name me and want to show me how the basket should be filled. It would be simple it seems, even for me, if I could just follow instructions. Watching with the stillness of a reptile, I know this is not going to work but cannot resist a wry smile as the bag groans as it is filled as full as a giant’s egg. It tears. It breaks. Berries, stones, leaves whirl through air and thud. He scratches his head as he looks for another basket while I ponder why my hair is not a ring of a tree and why he has learnt nothing of experience or wisdom or the limits of baskets.
Jude Brigley
In the forest it is assumed I can no longer be trusted. Not with the gathering of berries. Not with the choosing of leaves. Not with the rounded pebbles. My white hair is a flag in the wind. The men cannot name me and want to show me how the basket should be filled. It would be simple it seems, even for me, if I could just follow instructions. Watching with the stillness of a reptile, I know this is not going to work but cannot resist a wry smile as the bag groans as it is filled as full as a giant’s egg. It tears. It breaks. Berries, stones, leaves whirl through air and thud. He scratches his head as he looks for another basket while I ponder why my hair is not a ring of a tree and why he has learnt nothing of experience or wisdom or the limits of baskets.