Thursday 10 February 2022

A Dusty Tangle.

A dusty road.

Dogs always barking.

An empty plot.

A white wall and then a green iron gate.

Three steps down into the garden.

Over by the tree a solid, empty overcoat - more than man size, ivy twisting up where a body would perhaps have been.

A sculpture?

A forgotten prop from a circus show?

The van is there too, waiting, sleeping. 

A cat sits by the back door.


Inside two people are sleeping.


The yard at the front is empty, a dusting of pine needles an mimosa on the floor, further round a pit for the fire.

On the other side , not yet built, a room in wood.

More than a cabin, a home apart.

But with.

Like the two people sleeping.

Beyond a tangle of bush and pine and a ravine of twisted roots.


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