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.
Waiting.
Inside two people are sleeping.
Dreaming.
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.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment