THE SONG OF DIJON
A muse of absurditoire charmant beswozzled my mind and utterethed the
whimsical song of Dijon, of the massive harp, which pleases me most fully:
I do not spend this hot August morning in busy Brighton
But in leafy Ditchling, below the Downs
Just as, upon the tip of Tehuti, Auset, leaving beaufully multi-stored
Memphis, entrusted the young Heru to the countryfolk of Chemmis village
Where Perseus too has his temple
Perseus, who similarly found haven on sandy Seriphos, safe from the jealous
wrath of Acrisius, floated there from the mouth of the Inachus, his
ancestor, the River God who fathered Isis' priests.
So do I entrust myself to this ancient Sussex village.
And eat your heart out Seriphos,
for this is Ditchling,
And three turtles are in the village pool.
So hot it is this morning that not even they choose to bask on the rocks
that range around the water's edge,
But float in the cool green Sun-water like islands in the sea.
So eat your heart out Seriphos,
for these very rocks, these megaliths from some ancient circle, they were
petrified when Medusa, the Gorgon, cast here her glance.
And mark you, O Seriphos,
Surely it was here, in Ditchling, that Perseus came with the sickle,
god-given; the three turtles, older still, remember it well. Only the heron,
the Heron of Ditchling Pool, is older even than they. Today perhaps flying
out somewhere on wide slow-beating wings, or wading silently deep there in
the shady private foliage on the far side of the pool - this morning the
heron has not been seen.
In former times the Soul of the Ditchling Heron resided in a great king, his
seat here in Ditchling, while the Beacon stood as Acropolis.
The turtles, then too in human form, are his three daughters.
The ducks an archestra of comedians,
While at other times it was the doves who enchanted the palace with song.
The moorehens paced from room to room carrying scrolls in hand and
discussing or meditating upon high matters of state,
While the coots their brothers padded through herb and vegetable gardens,
for they were the king's own farmers.
There was in Ditchling in those days a great harpest who played in the
palace. His name was Dijon. He loved courgettes and soft, white pillows. He
slept in a cave inside Ditchling Beacon. Beneath the Acropolis, with his
enormous golden harp by his side. His tall boots were made from India Rubber
- the first of their kind.
He fell in love with one of the king's one-day-to-be-turtle-daughters, and
wrote music for her of such beauty that the gods allowed him to live to the
age of 373 so long as he promised to play the song every morning. As his
373rd birthday approached the people of Ditchling were sad that they were
about to lose their harpest and not hear any longer his woundrous song, and
feeling compassion for them he taught it to the local birds who repeat it
once a year at dawn for seven days in May.
Dijon then betook himself to his cave, with his harp, and fell asleep, but
it is said that he will wake and play again when a cow and a goat are seen
to walk along Ditchling highstreet of their own free will. The two animals
must then be served golden ale from bronze or pewter dishes. Then Dijon will
awake.
Update: Now I believe that in fact I may have been misinformed, that it wasn't the birds to whom he taught the song, but that Dijong taught it to the local musicians, who repeat it not annually, but upon the last Sunday of every month in the folk come-ye in the Bull, Ditchling.