The Blue Knight fell asleep in his broken chair, rocking gently when the wind insisted, head on both sides. Explosions not so distant to left and right.
In his dream, the hi-rises rose higher and lower, reaching perilously for the sun in its lofty kingdom. Each one carrying the aspirations of a crowded room, each tower the residence of light bulbs undimmed. Each doorway a portal, an opportunity untapped, each stairway a way to discover the places a little bit higher up. Brick on stone, steel on wood, plastic on concrete. Placed with care, fixed in muck, screwed in tight, bolted on like data, folded like paper planes. Smoothed over, sanded down.
Rose too the bridges and by-passes, the electricity sub-stations and sewage plants with their circles of wonder and gushing distributions. Rose the shopping experience and the nose against the shop window. Rose the park fences and ceremonial squares for crowding. Grew tall the posts with wires and posts with street lighting, especially designed for the night. Opened the florist for floors and the optician for opts. Opened the sweet shops for toothache and friendship, the banks for voles, shoe shops for vegetables. You know what I mean, all the stuff that you saw as a kid painted on the walls and ceilings. The places that you see when you turn around, that were the same as last time.
On the green, on the traffic island with its safety rails and organised lights, on the solar panels radiating wellbeing, on the pavements near Baker Street and Madame Tussauds, where the tourists block the light and strip the tat shops like plastic-eating locusts. On the station platform, where suitcases have wheels and stirrups. On the shop floor, where the working people and robots were on lunch break. The builders polished everything to a rosy glow and the road menders continued to mine the Old Kent road for valuables lost in the previous century.
The guns had fallen silently over a cliff and the drones had been unprinted by the million. The soldier’s rough uniforms, (They were rough when I was conscripted), were spun into kites for the children. The gun powder emptied from the high-tech bombs and captured by the latest telescopes, in ghostly images, touring the galaxy. The fox holes were ceremonially handed back to the foxes. The land mines cleaned and fed to the pigs, who will famously eat anything. The fighter aircraft made friends, the rockets created rainbows across the walls of the primary schools, entertaining the under-fives, before sleeping lions. All in all, a ceasing of fire, water hoses at the ready, a stopping of bullets in mid-air, so that someone can collect them up for recycling. A change of tune, spinning the dial.
Cease fire, we could play football instead, darts, anyone for tennis? Cease fire, I’ve dropped my car keys, Ill be with you in a minute. I’ve got to dash to the shops, I forgot to buy any eggs, milk, butter, cheese. Won’t be long, hold that thought. Hang on a mo, I’ve got to get this, it’s my mother on the phone, back in a sec.
Cease fire, please, the cat is pregnant, I have to wash the car, the front gate needs mending, one of the kids has lost its sock and is late for school.
Cease fire for a moment would you, my teammate has taken a knock. Cease fire, I think its cooked through, anymore and it’ll be inedible. Cease fire, just until tomorrow, I have to get some rest, weed the garden, man the pumps and woman the barricades. Cease fire please.
Cease fire and Ill stamp out the embers, pour cold water on it and suck out all the oxygen from the flames. Ill hose it down and dowse the ashes and we can all get back to business.
The explosions ceased with a bang and not a whimper and the ricochets blend with the bird song. The left-over drones flew free from their handlers and exercised their rights, performing synchronised ariel ballet for passing strangers. They built a pyramid from the rifles to indicate the summer solstice by its shadow and melted the tanks into weird shapes by the seaside.
The Guardians of the Cave 