AND NOW, IT’S
hoary old chestnut time. (The magic of time, in fact.)
“Time,” sayeth The Sage darkly, “is the medium of change. No time, no change. Hic!”
The hiccup is gratuitous. It’s nice to see him again, even if the rum suffers. He’s right though—and it’s easier to capture the magic of time than the magic. For example—
Galloping along the pavement outside the Invercargill museum my attention was once more held by this lot—
—which means nothing to nobody.
Not until I step back a pace or two and score this:
Which provides a sort of a clue.
But the next one nails it—
The Magic is how these lovely ornaments could be changed from being glittering great iron ship-holders into the tatty old ironish schloggs that we see above.
You know … I used to think that they were cast in a mould—the old ‘pour molten steel into special holes in clay’ sort of thing. But looking at the close-up (and the beasts themselves) they are nothing if not layers.
Layers and layers on layers … much like the old craftsman Samurai sword, maximum strength and flexibility instilled by folding over many times until they are thousands of layers.
I can believe it of a sword, but a bloody great anchor?
I mean these things are HUGE. So whatever the magic involved I’ll just prefer to travel hopefully rather than arrive.
And in the meanwhile, the magic of time is quietly working to return them one day to the ground as the oxides of which they were mined … a metaphor of some kind? Brrrr~!