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    Where Sheep May Safely Graze
    Where Sheep May Safely Graze
    Where Sheep May Safely Graze
    Ebook74 pages1 hour

    Where Sheep May Safely Graze

    By Roger Parkinson

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    About this ebook

    The cat stared up at him as though it knew all about the entry and he was being tiresome about it. Then it proceeded to have a bath, the kind of cello-playing bath one feels obliged to look away from unless one knows the cat well.

    A collection of short (some very short) stories and poems, mostly about New Zealand, or cats, or sheep.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRoger Parkinson
    Release dateJan 16, 2010
    ISBN9781452369556
    Where Sheep May Safely Graze
    Author

    Roger Parkinson

    Roger Parkinson is an author by night and a software consultant by day, although sometimes the two are reversed. He lives with his wife (high school sweetheart) and four sheep in New Zealand in an earth brick house that looks like a Romanesque Abbey (lots of arched windows). He built most of the furniture for the house himself and so far only one piece has collapsed.Apart from writing books he dabbles in electronics, gardening, kayaking, hiking and growing his hair.

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      Book preview

      Where Sheep May Safely Graze - Roger Parkinson

      Where Sheep May Safely Graze

      R. J. Parkinson

      Copyright R J Parkinson 2010

      Smashwords Edition

      http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/RogerParkinson

      Table of Contents

      The Pond

      Heaven

      Huia

      Cat Flap

      Lost

      Where Sheep May Safely Graze

      Sirens

      The Treaty of Wellington

      The Man from SiliconBark

      The White Goose

      Admission

      Jam

      Missing Sura

      Waking Up

      About the Author

      The Pond

      I see him sometimes, in the moonlight, just walking by the pond. How tall and graceful he has grown, so like his father was long ago. I can’t approach him, of course. No, I know I can’t. Something awful would happen. It would change the spell, I am sure. And then I would never see him again. And he is so like his father. I cannot see his golden hair in the moonlight, but of course I know he has it, just as it was when he was a child, because of the feathers, you see.

      I had the pond made, you know. It used to be a formal garden with lots of box hedges and raked gravel. They said the topiary was quite remarkable and there were statues hidden among it, nymphs and things. I kept them. They are over in the woodland garden. One of them is Diana the Huntress and Gerald used to say it reminded him of me. He was such a sweet man.

      Gerald never saw him in the moonlight. The accident happened too soon, before I even had the pond made. After we lost him Gerald was never the same really. He cared less about himself, took risks he shouldn’t have. I tell myself he was fond of the hunt so at least he died doing something he enjoyed, and it was quick by all accounts. Came off on a jump and broke his neck. It happens, of course. But I think it would not have happened if poor Gerald hadn’t lost a certain will to live.

      So after that I had the pond made. I just had to do something to keep going. It took months of workmen with spades and wheelbarrows, then more months of just waiting. Then the birds began to arrive. You can see I had the edges planted heavily and there are several small islands for safe nesting.

      They were just ducks at first, but I fed them anyway. A busy pond is more attractive than a dead pond, especially since it was close to the house. And it had to be close to the house, so that I could see it from the windows.

      Then the first few geese appeared. They were migrating from somewhere, I forget where. It doesn’t matter anyway. Oh, I took special care of those geese. I had little houses built for them and they came when I called. Wherever they were migrating to they seemed to forget about it and I seemed to have more and more arriving every day.

      People talked, of course. They suggested I should harvest the geese and mentioned it was a while since they had enjoyed roast goose. Yes, they could say that to me, after what had happened. I was outraged. My sister told me I was losing my marbles. I told her anyone would if it had happened to them.

      And early one morning I noticed a new goose on the pond. He must have arrived during the night because I always check them last thing to make sure they are all comfortable. A fine young fellow, I thought, and as I was throwing them the morning grain he came closer and I could see the golden sheen on his feathers.

      I dropped my bucket of feed and stared at him. He stared back, of course. And I think he remembered then what he was. How, when he was a golden haired boy he had been changed into a goose and flew away and lost himself. And now he was home again.

      And sometimes, when the moon is just right, I see him changed back to human form, walking on the edge of the pond.

      Heaven

      There was always a queue here and tonight was no different. Tom had waited over an hour, slowly working his way forward towards the garish doorway ahead. It had a big sign above it in flashing lights. It said ‘Heaven’. The music coming out of there was incredible, but they had that kind of reputation and everyone wanted to be seen on the other side of that door.

      And they pulled in all sorts, too. People giving it a try. Tom wrinkled his nose. The guy behind him stank of turps. He had a paper bag he took a swig from every now and then, and he kept forgetting that Tom had said he didn’t want any.

      ‘Care for a swallow?’

      ‘No thanks,’ said Tom, again.

      And the short woman in front of him was ill or something. She kept talking to herself, muttering away things Tom could never quite hear and he wasn’t so keen that he was going to lean down to listen better. He caught the odd word, though, mostly ‘no’ and

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