Sinister: This is where my summers have gone, I want a second chance

[Robert Foster]

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 at majordomo.net". To unsubscribe
   send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to
  "majordomo at 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"                   +-+
+----------------------------------------------------------------------+