giants

Over lunch I point my fork at my companion with intentional rudeness and growl: now don't you go anywhere! He laughs into his wine, a genuine laugh. It's good to hear it, and it goes well with the wine. At lunch I am still thinking about larger-than-life people and things. Giants under everything, like Ymir, like the Derby Tup whose song I remember hearing many years ago:

The horns that grew on this tup's head
They grew so mighty high.
That every time it shook its head
They rattled against the sky.

And this ram is dispatched by the butcher in gouts of blood, and the world, it seems, it made from his corpse, but it is the world of the everyday people of Derby, a world of aprons, bellpulls and other necessary objects:

And all the boys of Derby
Came begging for his eyes,
To make a pair of footballs,
For they were just the size.

Not a bad legacy, when you really think about it. Especially as we already have clouds, rocks, all of those things.

And now my song is ended,
I have no more to say;
So please will you give us a New Year's gift
And let us go away . . .