I wasn’t sure about this a week back, but now I am…
I live in this house, so do my family,
sometimes, a couple of cats and some dormice if you include the walls in your
definition of house.
Oh, and in the summer lizards, frogs and
butterflies tend to wander in, but I try to move them on.
Outside the house, up against the window
door is an egg.
A big egg.
An egg that looks like a stone.
An eggstone with legends written on it in
black paint.
The egg has been home to wasps, but is a
permanent home to a wooden engraved sword.
The ensemble thus becomes the sword in the
stone, or eggscalibur as it was known in the local village some years back.
Today it is home to a pair of nesting
blue-tits – they are coming and going as I sit here at the desk writing about
them.
Sometimes they rest a moment on the hilt of
the sword, a heart, before dropping through the crack of the egg through which
the sword could be pulled out if you were a king or queen.
There will be eggs in the egg.
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