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Cherub - A Partially True Fairy Tale
“I like it; go get it and stand it right there.”
The ‘It’ was a concrete bird bath
It was heavy as hell; about all I could bear
I struggled… my wife had a laugh
She’d seen it online; it was selling ‘as seen’
A gift bought for our feathered friends
Those birds seemed quite wary, why might that have been?
I guess that it rather depends….
****
Twas something not right in the garden that night
Something I didn’t suspect
If some ancient sage had shared his insight
A hammer would quickly correct
But there on the cobbles where it had been stood
A cherub, supporting a bowl
Innocuous really, it looked fairly good
Though its face hid a mischievous soul
Its face wasn’t pretty, I say without pity
It was made of grit, sand and cement
Its stone composition could not have ambition
It could neither sin nor repent
But hindsight they say is a wonderful thing
And I now know it bided its time
It held itself back and then launched its attack
Can concrete be guilty of crime?
It’s sunny in May, here in the UK
And my wife got the sun lounger out
But, occupied, I, heard a godawful cry
What was all the melee about
My wife was spread-eagled on our cobbled deck
Her blood puddled there on the ground
The large concrete bowl that the cherub had shed
Was its weapon… and all that I found
I helped my wife up while avoiding the glare
Which I told myself couldn’t be real
Of that concrete face with its grey concrete hair
Then agony made my wife squeal
With no time to waste we drove off in haste
The hospital wasn’t too far
But all I could see was that cherub’s stone face
And I felt it was there in my car
Well it got it wrong; my wife was too strong
No statue could take her from me
She lay in a bed for a week that was long
I decided to set us both free
I’m sure in my mind that it wasn’t unkind
For inanimate objects can’t think
But I saw its face and it felt out of place
I intended to kick up a stink
I bought me a hammer, a big whammer slammer
I planned to rain all kinds of trouble
To convince that cherub to plead with a stammer
Then smash it to bits at the double
Its face simply shattered as bits of it scattered
Each hammer blow harming it more
I stopped when the cherub was thoroughly battered
Then there was a tap on the door
The love of my life held a huge hunting knife
A sure sign the cherub had lost
But she was dull grey in a concrete like way
And it seemed that I must pay the cost
I knew, what she muttered, the cherub had uttered
It spoke with a snarl in its voice
“What is it you want?” I fearfully stuttered
It said, “You or me… make your choice!”
Copyright ©
Terry Flood
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