One final roar

Today being DerelictSunday2 (DS2, hosted by freespiral), I thought about going out to blip the empty building I'd seen in the week, but instead got caught inside with a little idea I had last night.

My dad bought me this tiger, years ago, from the Army & Navy Stores in Victoria St on one of our random visits to London.  It's about 8 inches long, made of rigid plastic with a kind of felted 'fur' stuck to it and when I first had it I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever owned.

As you see, it's still with me, very battered now.  The nose, ear tips and flanks are shiny and bald, the magnificent set of whiskers gone and the stripes faded.  But it still has the bit I loved best of all, the sparkling green glass eyes.  And derelict though it is, I thought through blip I'd give him one final roar!

The piece of wood he is standing on is also derelict.  It's a section of gorse root I picked up years ago on a memorable walk round the Meldon Reservoir on Dartmoor.

Below is William Blake's poem, The Tyger, which I - rather unoriginally - think of every time I unpack my tiger from the box under the bed.  It seems a long time since we thought of tigers in the way Blake describes.  Now we still kill them for trophies and 'medicine' and don't do much as they hurtle towards extinction.  Maybe the race of tigers could be called derelict now..

On which downbeat note (sorry) I do wish you a very happy evening, folks  xx


Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand or eye, 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


In what distant deeps or skies. 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?


And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?


What the hammer? what the chain, 
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp, 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 


When the stars threw down their spears 
And water'd heaven with their tears: 
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?


Tyger Tyger burning bright, 
In the forests of the night: 
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?