The village of mine

Where I live the sky is always colored.  Deep blue and black is the sky before an upcoming storm. Fire red and orange in the first hours of a day, most often grey. The seagulls within the clouds only visible as dots, white as chalk. White hollyhocks in summer and all year green doors here and green gates there. Sometimes a blue painted shutter. Never a day  windless, some days clear, the trees old and discreet. Water lilies- pink and violet in the river, next to weather- beaten paddocks. Sheep’s wool within the fence, a late relic from the summer. Colored but slow moves the world here in the village where I live and sometimes on a late afternoon the world stops, and you who are a visitor among us may stop for a moment  to see a picture before you, where you may find nothing special but some, which is unforgettable. 587 souls has the village I live in, but this means not to count the sheeps, cows, pigs, ducks, gooses, ponies, dogs and cats, which are the majority among us. But no one speaks from animal souls, even if everyone knows that the sheep have constitutional rights here since the early medieval ages. The sheep, themselves tend to look forgiving at us and our poor souls. Most houses are homesteads but few inhabitants claim to be farmers. But after work there are always cows to milk or sheep to shear. In the village where I live, we have fisherman here, their boats are old but never sink. Some fisherman have the right to trawl out on the sea but this right as old as it is, won’t be renewed. But the fisherman hope one of their grand-sons or great- grand daughters will someday take over the trawl. The fisherman and the sheep are the closest among us. The souls, who live here are a gentry of their own. Any is its own emperor on his tractor and even Louis XIV. could never been walking more majestic than my neighbor does with a bag of hay on his back. In the village where I live we have a pork- butcher and a lamb- butcher, both are proud of their bloody aprons and decorate their shop windows with extreme care and always the best ham. Often you can spot the pork- butcher in front of the sheep, talking to them tenderly and for hours. The grocer knows everyone and knows everything before anyone, only the sheeps know more but they tend not speak as loud as the grocer or better the grocer’s wife does. The grocer’s wife would give a lot to the sheeps if they would tell her, what the pork- butcher tells them. But the sheep remain silent, they have a constitution, we not and the sheep know, that we know this fact very well. It is not known if the lamb- butcher has a similar fondness for pigs. Where we are, it rained on the morning and the leaves are dripping till it rains again in the evening. In the middle of the village there is an old water- pump with a head of lion. The cats of the village like to meet there on the long summer evenings, probably telling the old tale of the long forgotten times, where all cats were lions, dangerously and wild, not even thinking of milk as an acceptable meal. But this at least changed. Many things did not change and will never do so. In the summer the children, jump over the fence, to steal the apples, the best apples of course has the priest. But the priest is old but the church is older and I can hear the organ on every Sunday morning. In the summer the storks are coming, you are never coming to church says the grocer’s wife to me. But then the telephone rings and her sister, the baker’s wife tells her that the vet was seen with a woman never seen before here, which is indeed bad news for the grocer’s wife, whereas her daughter has had some hopes concerning the vet. But we will see. In the meantime the cows are getting out on their grasslands, the sheep will follow soon, it is time for the priest to cut the apple-trees, soon the wild chervil will be back, the sun will be seen from time to time, the next storm will follow, the lambs will be sheep by then, already briefed in the questions of the old constitution, it will rain and the first chill will come when it is time and isn’t this the car of the vet, over there? But he will need some more time until he arrives at the village where I live, because the black horse of the man everyone calls the rich man, is lame, told me the grocer’s wife, who knows everything and everyone here. But where we are, we have time and the sheep have constitutional rights.

5 Gedanken zu “The village of mine

Kommentar verfassen

Trage deine Daten unten ein oder klicke ein Icon um dich einzuloggen:

WordPress.com-Logo

Du kommentierst mit Deinem WordPress.com-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Twitter-Bild

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Facebook-Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Google+ Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Google+-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Verbinde mit %s