L'Estremo Accento

Moriamo insieme, ah, sì, moriamo;
L'estremo accento sarà ch'io t'amo!

--Vincenzo Bellini, Norma

Love and death--what could possibly be more romantic? Tell me you adore me so profoundly your last word will be devoted to me, and I might even say it back. (I might also move house and block your telephone number, but nothing ventured, as they say, nothing gained!)

Today, I'm courting Godfather Death* in exchange for a fresh candle. I'm perched in his shroudy ol' lap, playing Caro nome del mio core on his ribcage, as I whisper sweet nothings into his skull. They echo round his brainpan in a disquieting sort of way. Every once in a while, encouraged by the chill of his phalanges on my back, I brush my lips over his naked teeth. He tightens his bony grip in a way I hope signifies appreciative acquiescence, rather than some fiercer desire. I'm entirely at his mercy, unfit to resist either his ravages or his ravishings.

It's a lovely spring morning. The birds are up, the dew is down, and all's well with the world. You should see the riverbank, all wet and tangled and gleaming with insects. I came down for a spot of birding, but I suppose that's off, what with the scythe-wielding freak with the shroud on, and all. Right--I almost forgot about him. It's easy to do on a day like this, with the sun--augh!

Gerroff!

Ah!

Blimey! He nearly had me there, the blighter. I neglected to mention that, too--that he's after me, I mean. No joke. I'm mowing down the very flora I came to admire, and some of the less agile fauna too. I tromped a whole patch of Indian pipes there, and some unwary rosehips and buttercups. My mum used to pick buttercups. She'd stick one under your chin, and declare you a lover of butter. (If the yellow reflects on your skin, see, that's what it means. That you love butter. Really. According to Mum, anyway.)

Twenty minutes ago, I was belly-flat to the ground, peering through my bird binoculars. Cost me forty quid, those, and now they're in pieces. I'd marked a kingfisher snoozing in a willow tree, with his head stuck under his wing. I was waiting for him to take it out, because that's how you know what kind he is, by the markings on his head. He didn't show any signs of stirring, but that was all right. I could see lots through my binoculars besides him. A ladybird was making a glorious ascent of a bulrush, meaning to plant his flag on its plume. Two mayflies were sharing an indecorous moment six inches above the water. A big toad was contemplating his reflection, or maybe getting ready to tongue in the mayflies.

Noises--there were crickets: ee-ee-ee, and flies of various descriptions: ZZzzzzzzz! There was the plop and whoosh of the river, and the minute sound of dew dripping from grass. A green sort of smell drifted up from the ground, making me hungry.

Tiring of the lazy kingfisher, I panned my 'noccies left and right, taking in the morning. I admired the glint of a dragonfly, and winced at the blazing red of a poppy amid weeds. I spotted a linnet pecking his way through a sunflower's scatterings, and then--

Ouch! No!

--almost had me there! I'd better hurry--

--at any rate, I saw the linnet, then a shadow sort of thing came, and--bang! I got this horrible eyeful of skull and black crepe, and for a moment, I thought my ex-wife'd followed me down, wanting to know about the house. I dropped my binoculars (crak!), and there it was, this skelly thing. It'd already got its scythe up, ready to have me in two. Would've done, as well, if it hadn't been for the dew. It slipped, see, stumbled, and you didn't have to tell me twice. I was up, and off, and that's what I'm doing now, running away from this twat. You should've been here five minutes ago, when I swung across the river on a willow branch, or right after that, even, when I tore off my shoe and tossed it at Skeletor, over there. Worked like a charm. The laces came loose and wrapped themselves round his anklebones, and he was down like a tattysack. He's back up now, though, and I think he's going to catch me soon. He's flying, somehow, I kid you not. Every thicket I've got to shove through, he's sailing over in an instant. He's--

"'Ere, wossis, Harry?"

"It's a birdwatcher, isn't it? Fallen asleep, the lazy nit."

"Let's pinch his binoculars!"

Ey! You can't do that! They're broken, anyway.

"Lovely pair! Drunk off 'is arse--hasn't noticed a thing."

"Fred."

"Let's see if he's got anything else."

"Fred."

"Wot?"

"Fred! Look at the face on him! He's dead!"

No, I'm not! Paws off my 'noccies!

"Gorry, he is!"

No, I'm--

"No matter. Help me with his things."

...wanke--

* Godfather Death: German folk-tale in which Death measures human lives in candles. When one's candle burns out, one dies.