Regarding Eiders

As of late, I have become quite taken with Common Eiders. The following is my attempt to capture their spirit and beauty using graphite compound on paper:

The head shape was drawn with the aid of a nice photograph in a volume (from the Collins publishing offices) entitled 'Birds: A Complete Guide to All British and European Species'.

The illustration is not really so sepia-toned as it appears here, but it is in essence the same.

Regarding a Very Special Meerkat

It is with great sadness that I have received this news: Zaphod, the oldest meerkat ever to be studied by the Cambridge team, has passed away. He saw countless victories and defeats over his lifetime, and led several different groups. His legacy will, I hope, remain strong in the generations to come. I have written a tribute poem to him, as he fully deserves one. It is as follows:

The skies today are dull and grey,
and shepherd's trees are whisp'ring to the wind.
Their mournful wails and tearful tales
can only mean one thing:
the longest life has finally come to an end.

While others sleep, the Aztecs keep
and wait and watch the stars all through the night;
now comes the dawn, but their leader's gone,
and no-one sees the sun
or revels in its rays of oft-beloved rosy light.

The sun is bold, but the sand is cold,
and so the hearts of all those standing still -
Monkulus grieves, and yet she receives
no comfort to her wounds:
no grooming, not a lick; no greeting trill.

The world seems bleak - but the spirits speak
of brighter times gone past and yet to be:
Zaphod is gone, but his children live on -
the future lies with them;
the desert is a kingdom for this monarch's legacy.

Those left behind will quickly find
that life can suffer loss and still go on.
Indeed, up above is a once-lost love
of Zaphod's very own,
and Flower seems as though she'd never gone.

So ends his story, but never his glory:
the Aztecs and the Whiskers will survive.
They fight in his name and speak of the same
in legend and in song:
in the soul of every meerkat he is very much alive.

x Elinor Blackwood 9 April 2011

Regarding Wednesdays

Having slept with my window slightly open, I awoke this morning to a gentle chorus of finches and the high-spirited calls of jays. There was something else, as well; a pattery ticky-tocky sound. It took me some time to realise, but this was the sound of rain.

The skies are grey, and this is good: for it is Wednesday, the holiest of all days. On Wednesdays, we have no obligations. We are going to the book-store today, and that does not count as an obligation because it is by choice and not a grueling task.

You may recall, dear reader, that I have decided to rid myself of Much Clutter. My mother has adopted an excellent strategy: throw out One Thousand Things. I shall certainly attempt to assist her wherever I can.