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| shrigley |
June.
A month for Bob and his boxes.
Left over photos; scraps of paper, 'scribblings', bits and bobs.
There’s a guy, lives in the village, I’ve
never spoken to him but I’ve waved and nodded and he returns the gesture
regularly.
He looks Asian, or at least there is a
suggestion in his face that his family origins reach back there and he moves
with a Confucian grace, though I may be imagining that.
He is slim, dresses casually, wears his hair
long and I always see him alone; if he is married his wife is not here any
more. But he doesn’t seem sad. He doesn’t seem happy either. He is neutral.
Last week I came home from a day in the
city, it was late and the summer sun was just setting; the village was empty
except for him.
He was standing on the pavement staring
upwards into a distant blue sky of midsummer’s eve.
He was watching the swallows.
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