The Sixty-Eight Steps.

There are sixty-eight steps from the road to the beach, a blue handrail alongside most of them.

A sign states that pebbles should neither be picked up nor stacked.

He ignores this and slips three into his pocket, each one smooth and round, tempered by the rolling sea in which he bathes.

The water is cold, his body tingles when he stands after on the sand.

In the distant, coloured houses fringe the bay.

Yellow.

Rose.

Blue.

Sixty-eight steps back to the road and across the grass to the house where people are still sleeping.

He sets the three pebbles on the desk next to the drift wood, and begins to write.

Burning Donkeys on the Track of Time.

I’ve waited all night to start writing, five or six hours at least, and now it’s almost midnight. The fire is slowly dying, the last few sparks still spiralling into the night sky. 

A few stars are there to greet them, the western heaven is overcast with rain-cloud so the eastern home is theirs. 

And, I have moved my chair back, away from the flames to feel the fresh chill of the night on one side, the warmth of the flame on the other.

And I remember other fires, other days.

A festival.

An island.

A woman.

Her name is Mafalda, she is Portuguese.

The island is in the north sea, far from her home.

She is looking for someone.

I know where he is, and I offer to take her  to him on the back of my bike. 

The island is flat so it is not so difficult, but she is grateful.

Later, much later, we may become lovers.

In the city.

She excites me like no other, and she says I excite her. 

I don’t know why.

We stand on the roof of the disused hospital and watch the sunset.

I want her.

She wants me.

We want each other.

Even now, by the side of this dwindling fire, I can feel her fire.

Would I give anything for her to be here?

No.

Not everything.

Something.

 

 

There are four donkeys in the field, I know their names. They are the only donkeys that I have ever known by their first names - I don’t know if they have last names – except diesel who I only read about in the newspaper.

I cannot hear them now, I think they have crossed the field to the forest and maybe they have decided to sleep.

Do donkeys sleep?

I should, the night approaches the mid-point and I rose with the dawn song this morning. 

I spent part of my day in the woods, part by the house.

I cut wood.

I listened to the birds sing.

I read.

 

Tomorrow it will not rain.

I will take my bike and cycle through the forest, along the road and down the lane to where my friend lives.

I have known him for thirty years.

I will greet him with a kiss.

Until I came to live here the only man I had ever kissed was my father.

Now I kiss most of the men I meet, and most of the women.

 

 

Am i done?

Tonight, yes. I think so. My feet hurt and the fire is dying. I need to push the half burnt logs to the centre, and then I should retire.

Retire?

I already have, it has been two years or so.

I have lost track of time.

And time has lost track of me.