{"id":17403,"date":"2012-10-13T15:52:46","date_gmt":"2012-10-13T14:52:46","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/?p=17403"},"modified":"2012-10-13T15:52:46","modified_gmt":"2012-10-13T14:52:46","slug":"kenneth-overend","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/?p=17403","title":{"rendered":"Kenneth Overend"},"content":{"rendered":"

Not As It Seemed<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u2018Not as it seemed\u2019, you say in your letter. I do not know how it seemed. I do not know that it seemed.
\nYou remember, I feel sure you remember, that day after grey day, through March and well into April, here we’d sit on one of these benches. I knew from the first day the colour of your eyes, but who’s to say when exchanging words became talking, talking while looking each other in the face, or looking out there together at gulls standing on water as they flaunted their flapping wings, and gulls floating on the water, or floating in the sky and smoothly veering.
\nWho can say when the original silence between us became quite a different silence, one in which I felt so relaxed, and you did, you told me you did.
\nBut out there it was hardly ever silent, what with the cries of gulls, so diversely shrill, just as today. But one cry, it was not shrill. It came every now and again, and was far and near and was mournful.
\n\u2018Not as it seemed\u2019, you say. But it is, it is so today. Gulls flaunt on the water, or flail it as though they are floundering, gulls haunt the sky, and I have heard the mournful call.
\nI’ve scattered all the seed I brought. Here on the path a pigeon has spread his tail \u2013 Behold my lovely tail<\/em> \u2013 and turned and presented his swollen posture to a female who seems to be playing hard to get.
\nA rat disappeared down a hole in the bank then reappeared to drag in backwards half a slice of bread. The girl who threw it has gone. The pigeon is still attentive, still circling the female with his tail fanning down to the ground \u2013 he looks more like a bride than a bridegroom. I hear the throaty stutter before each deep \u2018Ooo\u2019. Behold my glorious crop<\/em>.
\nYou remember, I know you will remember . . . It was a day when the sun broke through, it suddenly shone on the lake like light on bottle-green glass . . . We sat looking out in silence.
\nThen \u2018See\u2019, you said, pointing to a gull standing in frozen tribute to itself on a railing bollard. \u2018Just look at its beak\u2019, I said. \u2018It’s so, so, business-like\u2019.
\n\u2018And look\u2019, you said, \u2018at its legs. Those aren’t a herring gull’s legs. A herring gull’s legs, they’re pinkish, but these gulls, they’ve yellow legs. I wonder . . .\u2019 You shook your head.
\nThe light on the bottle-green water shone as though from an inner source. \u2018I wonder\u2019, you said, \u2018how long I’ve been looking without really seeing. They were herring gulls here all right at the beginning. It was their domain so to speak. And when did these take over?\u2019
\n\u2018Perhaps today\u2019, I said. You studied the back of your hand, then, as though you’d turned a page, you studied the palm. You slowly said, as though reading it out, \u2018Flesh-coloured, a herring gull’s legs.\u2019
\nOur eyes met, and looking out there where gulls were threshing water, freshening, renewing themselves, we were holding hands for the first time.
\n\u2018Not,\u2019 you say, \u2018as it seemed\u2019. I suppose one could say the same, about corn no longer green.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Not As It Seemed \u2018Not as it seemed\u2019, you say in your letter. I do not know how it seemed. I do not know that it seemed. You remember, I feel sure you remember, that day after grey day, through March and well into April, here we’d sit on one… Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":27,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[177],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17403"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/27"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=17403"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17403\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17405,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17403\/revisions\/17405"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=17403"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=17403"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.bohemiavillage.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=17403"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}