Thursday, September 18, 2014

Clock tower to Lighthouse...


          The clock struck noon. The bells rung a dozen times. The pigeons on the clock tower stood still, for they knew exactly when an hour passes. They had lived their whole lives there and had no reason to wander around. The young kept the time while the old looked on. The clock would tell when the sun sets, when to find food and when to come out to observe the wonders of the old town.

          But there were no wonders in town. They knew every inch of it. From the beach that borders the town from the South and the West to the endless fields that stretch to the mountain range far on the North to the vast river on the East. A young pigeon would take off when the bells began to ring and would go all over the city, not missing a single square foot, and would return in time for the bells to ring, once more than when he left.

          He would fly into the breeze the great ocean brings in. At the small cliff right by the sea, South of the core of the town, he would sit on the discolouring white light house and observe the numerous ships far in the horizon going past his town's beautiful natural harbour without bothering for a visit. His elders had told him that it is this very harbour that had brought in a thousand ships and a million traders, travelers and foreigners in general ashore, making the town one of the most important in the country. But times have changed, he would think; time has grown old, so have the elders, so has the light house, so has the harbour, so has the whole town itself.

          From there, he would look westward; he would notice the now deteriorating fort the Spanish had built using the huge rock that once had stood proud in the middle of the town. In the fort would the clock tower he lived in stand tall, for it was the only thing his town could afford to maintain from the little taxes it collected.

          He would contemplate flying to the East to the river he had seen a million times. His elders would take him there when he was very young and teach how all the water from places unseen eventually would go into the vast sea. What wondered him the most, though, had been how the sea would be brown in colour where the river falls in and that brownness would slowly turn into dark green as if the sea is slowly swallowing the river. he has seen how, before and during a cold winter, there would be huge sand dunes of different colours deposited right around where the river would meet the sea and how all this would go away once the air brings in heat.

          He didn't know where this heat and the cold would come from; he had seen this drastic change a few times now. He always thought it had something to do with the church, in the middle of the town, to which he would fly from the old light house, now covering in weeds. The church, being the place everyone met up every week for what his elders would call a "mass" would be right across the street from another place where people gathered; though here, only the "important" people did. His elders had told him that it is there that all decisions regarding the town are taken and all taxes collected. He would think if it is there that people had decided to take out his elders' homes from the light house once upon a time; many many winters before he was born.

pigeon bird flight church chapel photo

To be continued.....

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