The BBC's Walking With Dinosaurs has tainted my perception of things. I imagined a hideous deformed being. Uncouth and loud with snarling yellow teeth, long dirty claws and un-polished shoes. I dreaded listening to it gruffly, roughly, murdering a poem about butterflies or flowers or brown paper packages tied with string. This morning my gentle dozing was disturbed by a scratching at my window. I carefully removed the rose petals which had served as a blanket, wrapped my silken gown around my bare shoulders and glided over to the French doors. There, through the clear glass stood a figure of magnificent form and beauty. Surrounded in a golden halo, like a cultured Golden Graham. An enormous wing span tempted me. It was like a giant 65 million year old hug from something cosy. I undid the latch and let it in. Once inside cherubs descended from the painting on the ceiling and began to prepare a breakfast of Strawberries, Mango, Grapes (seedless) and green tea. We took our meal out into the patio to consume under the light of a morning sun. Once sitting we talked for quite a few hours about Keats, Yeats and Marlow. Even some bloke called Murdoch. Anyway, were great friends now. He convinced me to offer something for harvest, so here it is. The Darkling Thrush, Thomas Hardy I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fries. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry And every sprit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arouse among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. I think that it is customary at this point to whisper in the pterodactyl's ear and persuade him who to fly to next. My first choice was Isobel Cambell. But the pterodactyl just laughed. How about GEORGE DICKIE. I said. This made the pterodactyl a bit cross because I shouted in his ear. But sure enough and after he finished his green tea he took to the sky, off to DICKIE acres. +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the reborn Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail "sinister@majordomo.net". To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to "majordomo@majordomo.net". WWW: http://www.majordomo.net/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "jelly-filled danishes" +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+