The Aeolian Harp

What was your mother saying about the Aeolian harp? asked Pliny. And the seagulls?

Is that all you can say after reading my lovely description of the sea? I countered, somewhat miffed. What did you think of my spiders' legs stew? And my greygold waves backlit by the sun?

Jiggery pokery! said Pliny. I prefer a plain description. But I will acknowledge that you were trying very hard to paint the sea in words. Perhaps you should buy yourself a camera. However, I am interested in this Aeolian harp, and why it was silent on a windy day.

I don't know, Pliny. It used to hum noticeably when it was first constructed. I remember walking underneath it and thinking it might drive people mad. Perhaps it did. Perhaps they had to tighten up the wires and shut it up.

Ha ha, laughed Pliny. These Aeolian harps are never any good. A foolish Greek invention. I remember some lines of Coleridge:

...................this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.

That's impressive, Pliny, you knowing Coleridge like that.

Oh yes, I am good friends with Coleridge. But what was it your mother said about the harp?

The seagulls never used to sit on it, but now they do
For see! the harp is covered with white seagull poo.

Transfiguration

I'm at Hove on Sunday afternoon. I'm wearing another jacket. I don't like this one either.

It's brown corduroy, with faux fur trim around the hood. And it's too short.

I'm going for a walk with my mum and Nostradamus. We walk to the Brighton jetty. Let's go on the jetty, says my mum.

It's windy on the jetty. The aeolian harp feature is mysteriously silent. One of the coloured sails is torn to shreds, flapping. The red and white one. It's sunny. The sun is low and slanting, and the sea is like heaving phlegm.

We only get half way. My mum thinks it's too windy after all. And the seat she meant to sit on is too dirty.

We're walking back now, towards the esplanade. She is saying something about the aeolian harp, and the sails. I'm transfixed by the sea, on the northern side of the jetty where it's now backlit by the sun. No longer monochrome, it heaves in patches of animal colour, green black and brown, like a stew of spiders' legs; the waves, semi translucent, greygold, topped with foam, outraced by their tumbling shadows.

Well, maybe not transfixed, but it does take my mind off my wardrobe.