Paradoxically Yours...

Muse of the Meadow

(prompt: 'delay' 18/8/2017)

And it came to pass, on a perfect spring day; endless blue heavens stretched above; a trail of puffy, icecream balls of clouds rested atop the distant mountain range, and the clearest boy soprano's voice rang deliciously over the rolling verdant hills.

Deep in the valley, framed by the greatest snow-capped mountain, in the shadow of the tall steeple of the church dominating the village, the townsfolk heard his voice, lusty and clear, echoing off the mighty sentinels encircling their picture-perfect home.

Prince Charming was atop the royal castle bridge spanning the moat when the cry reached his ears - and his mighty steed's ears, too. Despite its full battle regalia (only donned on Saturdays for regular pomp and circumstance purposes), the horse's ears lifted high and sharp, turning every which way. Even frogs deep in the swampy grasses below ceased their songs, finding themselves suddenly croakless in Camelot.

Out on the dusty road, a farmer sat atop a mighty load of hay on a trailer pulled by a pair of trusty draft horses. On each side, the muscular workers strode purposefully, bringing their harvest to town. But even these placid pastoralists lifted their heads higher and strained their ears, despite their weariness, strangely energised by the haunting refrain echoing from the walls of the castle.

Men drinking in the local 'Drop Innery' were not spared. The crystal chorus flowed melodiously through the small windows and the open door, surrounding the imbibers at the highly polished bar. Though slower than most to respond to the beauty, having to fight their way through a deal of foam (thanks to the barman's sluggish beer trigger finger), they found resistance was useless.

Without exception, the people were caught as if on Candid Camera - seemingly frozen in time by the pure, dulcet tones. Later, they would report a strange lassitude creeping over their bodies, a helplessness to feel animosity or even raise their hands in protest as their minds surrendered to the ultimate beauty of The Voice. ALL were lost but one... One little girl in a pale pink coat  understood 'goat-talk'(not Barbie. No. Wrong movie), and yodeled right back. And the souls (and ears) of the villagers were transported as their heads turned backwards and forwards to catch the beauteous chords ringing through the town - a duet from these two nightingales. And deep inside her ample bosom, the heart of the mother of the little girl sang in tune. She just knew there'd been a good reason to keep the pale pink coat for a special occasion. Her eyes gleamed, seeing far into the future wherein the duo would become a trio, maybe a whole choir... and find international fame and fortune on 'The World's Got Talent'.

High on the hill above the village, did the previously lonely little goatherd care? With a little girl in a pale pink coat happily yodelling in perfect tempo and pitch with him? His answer, as always, was -

'O delay ee, Old delay ee,

O delay hee hee, o delay ee...

O delay, o delay, o delay odlee, o delay odl lee,

O delay, o delay, o delay,

HOO!

(which, roughly translated from 'goat' means - NO!)