Mr Sisyphus's Bedtime Story

A gentle breeze blew through the forest. The leaves fluttered, and the ripe cherries on the Sisyphus tree bumped against one another. Then all was still. A tiny, contented sigh then came. It would only have been audible to a bird close by, or perhaps a child standing amongst the blossoms near the ground. But a sigh it was, and a most extraordinary sigh, for it came from Mr. Sisyphus.

If you stand at the bottom of the Sisyphus tree, close in beside the trunk where leaves surround you, and gaze up into its depths, you might notice that amongst all the cherries hanging there, one is not quite the same as all the others. Perhaps you will notice a tiny foot, a twig-like hand, or even, if your crane your neck, an eyeball twinkling there amongst the hanging balls of fruit. Unpluckable, never picked by hand, nor pecked by bird, nor pitted and preserved in a pie. Never to fall gently and bounce on soft moss, to be planted and grow again. For there hangs Mr. Sisyphus, the cherry who cannot fall.