He woke up one evening to see that it wasn’t the morning that he wanted to gulp; the tired summer winds had blown the sun away and a lonely white boomerang hung low in the sensuous palette of a surrealist’s sky. And everything worked by the ting-ti-ding of a tiny shrill tongued bell that sat pretty beside his bed of feathers and musk.
Ting and his slippers walked in, in a regal frap-frap. Ding and his wash splashed in; a warm jug with warmer water that smelt of his garden roses in bloom, and a silver basin that stung his eyes from recent wax and shine.
Dingaling and the supper table flew in, sporting delicacies like jewels, piping and smoking and wetting the waif-on-the-road’s two day hungry dry mouth.
Dingalingaling; the harps strummed until he could not see the golden strings that were hidden in a vibrant trance of tune; the organs tooted the rich breeze into richer zephyrs; the cymbals clattered like second fiddle metallic accompanists; the accordion squeezed musical burps in its baggy innards like a whimpering child with the flu.
And in the midst of his bells and the luxuries that came with it, his mind swayed, a faithful rain-happy puppy, to the crowded nightly swamp; a lonely pad of a luscious green lily leaf, the waft of sickly sweet lilies and earth.
His green reflection on the brown water, the sharp drizzles that waved the pond and broke his mirrors.
The lonely hums of a lost dragonfly and his busy, transparently veined wings.
The flick of his tongue, the pointless insect struggle in his green dark tummy.
The tickles down his food pipe as he regurgitated the silly wings.
The silence of the rain as he closed his yellow huge eyes and let the drizzle shine his green and scaly body.
The brief dives into muddy waters and pools of head and tail babies that skittered blind.
When he turned into a prince, there were a lot of things that he couldn’t do.