Monday, 4 September 2017

Huckleberry.

Toulouse/wednesday evening


It’s raining.

It’s a delight.

Delicious.

A treat.

An autumnal prelude.

A breath of fresh….

Moisture? Water?

Listen to it.

I am. There’s something about end of summer rain on a tin roof that takes me back to a simpler time.

I felt like Huckleberry Fin yesterday.

You were by the river.


Did you see any fish?

Under the tree where I had left my clothes hanging, yes.

Where did you swim?

By the old tunnel, past all that remains of what once was, past the fig tree- though I floated gently and consumed two – on past the old man of wood and stone where the dove was drinking and up to the first submerged hollow where the echoes of old wrecks gurgle.

Did you see the kingfisher?

Not this time.

What now? Shall we rise?

It feels so good, so safe, I wish to stay.


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