Crickets

One night the crickets came out to make merry by the brook. Some perched in the long grass and played their music, others danced and sang along. All the little field-creatures joined the revelry until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Monday the washerwomen came with their loads and their children. The women worked and chatted; the children played and splashed. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop forgotten laundry

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Tuesday the village youths came to swim in the brook. They hunted frogs and newts, played games, and jump-flipped off the bank into the cool water. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened in the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop a youth’s forgotten shoes

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Wednesday young men and women came out to the brook. They glanced at each other sidelong and tried to impress potential mates. They made each other little presents and spoke of how they would all be noble knights and clever queens. They stayed by the brook until dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop a withered garland

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Thursday the fair pitched by the brook. Bards sang, children danced, and the finest of everything was on display. Young families gazed at strange creatures and shows. Newly-weds sat on the brookbank, eating spiced meat pies with their feet in the cool water. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop the midden-pile

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Friday two armies came to the brook, one on either side. The kings hurled insults back and forth, then the armies joined battle. Some fought bravely, some cried for their mothers. Some were maimed, some were killed. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop the broken hilts and shields

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Saturday the widows came to the brookside. They wailed as they washed their husbands, laid them in the grass, and built cairns over them. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood atop the cairns

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One Sunday the priests came to bless the dead. They prayed and chanted and wept beneath the vault of heaven. They built crosses and sprinkled holy water and delivered comforting sermons. They stayed by the brook til dusk darkened the dells, then went back to the village.

That night the crickets

stood upon the crosses

and played and danced and sang.

The little field-creatures joined the revelry

until the pre-dawn cold shooshed them home to bed.

One day men in orange hats came to the brookbank. They brought great machines of progress that tore up the grass and diverted the brook’s cool water. They laid foundations and built prosperity. They stayed til dusk darkened the world, then went back where they came from.

That night there was no music,

no singing,

no dancing.

About the Author

Erik Peters is a teacher and avid mediaevalist from Canada. Erik’s work with marginalised students has profoundly influenced his writing which has been published in numerous magazines including Coffin Bell, Superlative Lit, Prospectus, The Louisville Review, and The Dead Mule School. Read all Erik’s publications at www.erikpeters.ca or @erikpeterswrites.