Hay Bales

Nope, I don't know where this is going. Yep, I adore hay bales.

There can be no comparison to a haybale. A hay bale is round, warm and friendly, a cosy bed, a perfect companion.

A hay bale must be large, large enough to be difficult to climb, but small enough to be the perfect size to be saddled and ridden.

It must be tied by netting or string, invisible at a distance, not too slippery, not too great a barrier between hay and skin.

The hay must be soft, but at the same time prickling, warm and dry, and smelling sweet, smelling enough to be evident from a distance, but not enough to stimulate phlegmatic movement in the nasal passages.

A hay bale must also have companions. There is no use in a hay bale standing solitary and alone, for it loses its optimistic aura and warmth. There must be sixty or seventy hay bales in each pack, standing to attention in a line, and there must be the perfect distance between each pair; not too far, to allow short legs to step between them, but not too close, because then there is no challenge or risk in vaulting the space between.

These hay bales must lie in a field, which is thick and green, and unpolluted by the disruptive fumes of a road, or the growl of an airport. The field must sit at the very top of the world on its great green throne, and it must be invisible from places of populace. It must have a secret entrance through an overgrown path, and this path must be sunken several metres below the pedestal of the field and its luscious hedges.

Finally, the hay bales must be silent and devoid of bugs. When the insects scuttle and scurry, time passes and the world goes on and the clock cogs go round and round, powered by hundreds of tiny black legs. And this is not right, for time must be still in the field of haybales. And they must be silent, of course, lest they ansewr back. And that behaviour is quite rude and unamiable, and best friends must listen and advise in the peace of wordless companionship.

Humans have grown lazy over the years. We have lost the true art of perceiving, and taken the short route by voicing our thoughts aloud to the earless air. Yet this vocalisation is inadequate compared to the sincerity of what we could perceive if only we remembered how. If we could perceive, we would know so much, and understand so much. Speech and words have destroyed that art.

But here with the hay bales, tranquil perception is their nature, and they will teach us to perceive too.

The End

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