Once upon a time I was to feature in a performance of King Lear – my only ever attempt at Shakespearean Theatre. It transpired that I actually spent the season in a hospital bed, and was thus replaced on stage (by someone better, as it turned out).

I’ve never been much of a Shakespeare sort of guy anyway, but I was rather taken by one line, because it says a lot about little boys and Gods. And I’ve never really stopped being a little boy.

‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.’

So here is another bunch of words dragged out of the past which touches on that a bit, I hope.

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Fingers suddenly piercing cold water with youthful interest and exuberance . Left hand marrying right beneath the surface. Forming a makeshift cradle of liquid in which the fish, a minnow, finds itself elevated without warning into another world. Tiny frightened eyes blinking upwards at unfamiliar shapes through the unfiltered sunlight. Curiosity peering downward examining the mysterious creature for hints as to the nature of life.

 

The creature, in turn, gasping for that life as the fluid it breathes slips through careless fingers and lands in tiny teardrops on the dirt below. Fragile glistening scales exposed to the universe and reflecting the desperate message that life is fleeting and delicate.

 

But curiosity too, is fleeting and fades, like all things, with time.

 

Intertwined fingers separating and opening a gate into the void.

 

And from the cradle the fall begins.

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