Friday, February the 25th, 2005

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In a Bog

In a bog, we find Blodgett. We steal upon him when he does not expect us. He is floundering in the bog, a clumsy giant. One of us says, “Blodgett, you have mud in your beard”. Blodgett fains not to hear. He puffs and grunts. As he splutters, bits of dried mud fall out of his beard. “How long have you been in that bog, Blodgett?” we ask, in unison. Now Blodgett scowls. His spectacles are mysteriously agleam, in spite of the muck in which he wallows. He does not reply. With great groans, he hoists himself almost to his feet, before falling back into the bog with a mighty splash. Now there is some mud on his spectacles too. “Blodgett, Blodgett, there is mud on your spectacles,” we sing, to a little tune we have devised for such an occasion. This causes Blodgett to growl. He sounds like a hog. We toss him one end of a rope. Desmond ties the other end of the rope to the trunk of a nearby sycamore. “Blodgett, pull yourself out of the bog using the rope!” we cry. None of us can remember the rest of our tune. Blodgett's hat has fallen off his head. He tries to wipe the mud off his spectacles with a fat finger, but only makes a smudge. Clouds scud across the sky. They are black and bring rain. Poor Blodgett flops around in the bog. He does not use our rope, for he does not know we are there. No matter how loud we shout his name, he cannot hear us. Even if his spectacles were not smudged, he could not see us. We are always here at the edge of the bog, through days and nights in every season of the year. But we are tiny children, and we are ghosts.