Archie Weller on Love

The first story I read while on honeymoon in Melboune was a book by Archie Weller titled "Going Home Stories". Archie Weller is a compelling, descriptive Aboriginal writer hailing from Perth, Australia. His writings evidences his deep insight into the culture, nature and makings of his people, the aboriginals.

The paragraphs below are taken from one of the stories in Going Home Stories. The story, titled "Cooley" vividly describes the life of a young boy named Cooley. Brought up in much pain, angst, poverty & prejudices, he lives his life behind thick, untrusting walls, until he met a simple, plain and lovely white girl who changed the course of his destiny.

The paragraphs below details Archie Weller's striking description of love. Take in every word he uses - it's gonna be a literary experience of love. Enjoy. ;)

Book: Going Home Stories

Author: Archie Weller

This Story: Cooley

Theme mentioned here: Love

And love, to Cooley, was a waterfall, loud and powerful and forever. So loud it made the rocks shake and mountains tremble, so a man could not talk but only stare at the dancing rainbows in the mists that swayed over the wild, white water. And love was like a mountain of flowers, of red and pink and mauve and blue, standing supremely alone in a vast, harsh, dry, red desert. And love was like the shape of swans flying into the sunrise of a cool morning, quiet and slow and rhythmic. Like the swan that gently crossed the sun’s warm red heart for an instant, then faded into the greyness of dawn, Cooley allowed himself to float into the pools of the girls’ soft green-blue eyes and their souls met.

This girl was a shy as he was. Her small dainty hands fluttered and hovered like hummingbirds and delved into the flowers of youth to get some sweet honey. Her mouth tasted like mint. The petals of her clothes folded away to reveal a flower the beauty of which had never been seen before. So soft and white like the most delicate rose, like jasmine, like a lily of the field. This was a girl whose eyes were coloured like the hearts of oceans, whose mind and soul and love was as deep as the oceans and just as secret.

Cooley’s heart felt like bursting. The girl’s pale fingers wiped away the last shards of hate and mistrust from his slanted, light eyes and her soft murmurs of passion wiped away his tension and hate so that the fortress he had built himself came crashing down and he stepped from the ruins like a prince freed from some evil spell.

The Nyoongahs down south said the swan was the soul of the dead and whenever a swan was born, another ancestor was reborn.

That day, Cooley was a swan. He would soar above the sun. He would dive to the deepest, darkest bottom of the ocean and learn all the secrets there. The whole universe was his, such was his joy. The girl’s hands, as fragile and white as eggshells, had moulded him into a new being, a peaceful gentle being.

The girl wrapped long legs around his bony body, not like a spider catching another fly, but like a cool snowflake settling onto the brown earth as it prepared for winter.

Their bodies crushed the hay beneath the scattered clothes, so the sweet scent of the straw was their perfume. And so they loved while daylight died a graceful death and purple misty clouds spread over the sky like a blanket on a bed of a flag on a coffin. All the world’s troubles were forgotten for a short while and the only world they knew was the warm feed shed and themselves.