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How two small creatures worked for the world.
Once there was a time when warm sunshine shone over the land. It was a golden age that people thought would never end. It was a time of plenty.
The world turned, the seasons changed and work, learning and leisure carouseled in a seemingly unstoppable round.
Everyone, it seems, had most things. If they needed more things they could get them easily. It was as if the thought of them brought them into being and they arrived swiftly on the doorstep, almost like magic. The airwaves and cables were full of twittering and tweeting. An endless chattering filled the air, everyone talking but very few listening. What a blissful time. No hard decisions, just living without any real care for the future.
Then the world turned once more and things were different.
The people of the North and the people of the South and the people of the East and the people of the West seemed to forget and remember at the same time. They forgot what they valued and why. They remembered the past, hoping it would guide them to the future. Then they forgot to remember.
And the wind turned cold. So the people put on coats, hats, scarves and gloves, red, yellow, blue to protect and cheer themselves. They turned up their collars to keep themselves warm from the coming winter. Then the skies grew darker, earlier. Each night the curtains were drawn before the end of the afternoon and the start of children’s programmes. The temperature dropped like a plummeting stone until the icy winds cracked lips, paint, wood, stone and even the steel where the smallest depression could be found.
The snow clouds gathered and worked with the winds so that the earth was battered by biting blizzards that left it smothered and struggling under suffocating snow. But the people all kept going, they thought that it be over soon. All they had to do was wait. Wait for the turn, the next inevitable turn. But the snow remained, freezing the land, halting each life until there was a stillness that gripped them all. All the time the heaviness of the grey dreadful air muffled movement, stifled sound and withered wits.
It was one of these nights that the little bird, caught by the weather, frightened and cold, afraid for its life, thought of the spirit and asked for help. It took shelter on a ridge, a precipice in life. The tall windowless structure curved graciously, many lines running from top to bottom, with bands but not so many, going from side to side. It was smaller than the grey-blue bridge over the river and a different colour, not like its wings more like its chest, but it was made of the same stuff. It was bound to have a name.
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