Flower On The Mountain

Many a moon and years ago, in a sad farawaway land, there a monumental mountain stood, made of rock and jet-black sand. When the sun did set a flower did rise from the crest of the mountain-top; a flower which would grant immortality, to whomever picked the wee crop. But no one dared the challenge, the mountain bore thorns around its girth. Poisonous thorns yet not lethal, but thorns that do more than just hurt.

Villagers at the base of the mountain would always talk about their fear & of their pain, their minds never bold enough to imagine what with eternal life they would gain. And every day another petal fell, as cowards escaped the daunting task — a task not at all impossible, but indeed a lot to ask. So the flower sat there forgotten, dark skies overhead. Villagers were filled with discomfort, anxiety and dread.

Until one day a man broke through the thorns, impermeable to their bite, and at last reached the mountain top, and there dance with sheer delight. Then kneeling next to the magic flower he gently clasped his lips, as he pinched upon the flower stem and shuffled forward his hips. He leaned forward further and kissed the flower before leaning back again, and opening a bottle he emptied the water over his newfound flower friend.

“Be well little flower, I shan’t pick you today. Don’t ask why, I’m not going to dither. But if I pick you I win your prize, and that prize means I’d watch my loved ones wither. I sit here now and see you withered, and it really makes me feel quite sad. So have some water and keep your chin up, things really aren’t that bad”. And with a swift turn the mystery man ran back down the mountain at pace. And from that day on the sun shone bright, and the flower had the thorns replaced.

Now baby flowers lay in place of the thorns, with colours that the world had never seen. And the man grew old and eventually died, never once wondering what might have been.

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