Where to, miss?
the air whispered
the horses’ bells peeled by the winds
jingling, the horses ready to leave
I turned my neck a little
to see if they were there—
was I ready for a ride?
—but the driver had already turned away
leaving kicked-up dust
of moon-smoke in his wake.
Tag: place
Weather Turning.
The wisteria had completely died away for the winter and was now just a mess of bare, stick-like tendrils grasping to the house. But other flowers had been more stubborn – the roses were still bravely opening new flirtatious buds into the cold and the lavender trees, neat and thick, stood staunchly. The summer-dried and now rain-soaked leaves smelt like French fields, sun-drenched and stretching out flat beneath a low, blue sky. It seemed some hasty gardener had been through the bushes, for the path was strewn with freshly clipped lavender branches and scattered flower-heads. They and the cut ends of the tree’s branches were leaking fragrance into the air and infusing the raindrops with oil. The rain broke-up the air willy-nilly so that I caught the scent only in quick snatches before it was washed or wind-blown away. As I walked down the path the cat-scratches on the backs of my hands brushed against the bristle-like dead-heads and stung, risen and puffed, in fine slivers of pink through almost translucent skin.
Spires in the Evening.
Choral voices pierced the ceiling of the sky.
One Ghost Crept In.
Silently, he sidled up, to speak to me of his death.
He stepped into my inattention, my rapt, lost, quiet moment, empty of all thought, anchored in this place—he stepped in through an open door.
Silently, I greeted him.
He spoke quietly, but somehow, not in words, and told me—of the cold, and slipping, of the body drawn, and stopping. Told me—of his heart, raced-heartbeat, its reaching, its long-slow,
and stopping.
He told me—why.
As I listened, the weak sunlit sky of day was made all dark. I saw the spotlights’ circles flash and search, their beams made crossed swords clashing. I heard the rain that made the river rise to meet the sky, made water of the air, and suffocated the swimmer’s breath. I too was drawn, lost in liminal spaces, not in time, but drawn, and drowning. Before us ran the river; beneath our feet and at our backs grey stone drew closer, tighter, rain-wet and black, spotlight-flashed.
Silently, I listened.
He told me—of setting Westward stroke, night fallen, of swimming through the dark. I heard the siren stir; the blood in me was pulsed. He told me—or was it that I heard them?—of bullets cutting course through water. Told me—
this is where I died.
From the door, left ajar, cold breeze whispered, made ice of bones, deep-seeping under skin.
And silently,
still, the river ran.
It was a very New York story.
The subway was fetid with humidity. Taking the detour uptown to change my clothes had been a wasted effort. A dark patch already flourished at the armpit I had to raise to reach the overhead holds as I rode the train back down to the East Village; by the time I made it to the top of the exit stairway sweat clung to the skin of my stomach and grabbed stickily at my shirt.
Emerging onto Essex Street was barely a relief. A solid bank of dark clouds lowered the ceiling of the sky, and there was no breeze besides the cool flow of air-con escaping from shop doors.
It was a regulars-welcome kind of bar, oblong and small. The kind of bar where the very arrangement of the furniture encouraged either solitude or intimacy. It was a lovers-and-loners kind of bar.
We had the place to ourselves for a few hours. It was still the afternoon; the bar hadn’t got going yet. He poured them, and I drank. Memory licked at the edges of the picture, thick and sweet as the blueberry-flavoured liqueur in my glass.
A bar for lovers and loners. But which one was I?
Ghosts of My Berlin.
One ghost crept in, bedraggled, dripping drops of water, cold, and dispersing flakes of ice.
An Opening (‘And With No Questions Left Unanswered’).
The carrier-pigeon waited at the window, peering into the gloom beyond the glass. Somewhere in the shadows of the room, nothing stirred; all was quiet. The breezeless summer air sat heavily on his feathers, so he ducked his head into the shade and left the sun to warm his back as he waited on the ledge. He remained only lazily aware of the movements of the few other pigeons and some scavenging sparrows that flew listlessly through the square. Still fewer came and went through open windows on errands—today, even the humans, usually so busy, with so much to say, seemed languid and idle. Yet there was an energy somewhere. Even as he dozed, the carrier-pigeon felt a buzz about his head and thought, dreamily, this day there is a tension in the sky. What significance this tension might hold was, he knew, a thing beyond his reckoning, so, with no questions left unanswered and his sense of familiar peace undisturbed, he slept, quietly waiting.
Click here to read Part 2.
A Place You Can Slip Into.
Each place we connect with teaches us something — leaves something embedded within us. Some layer of the city’s smudge, some scent of countryside that clings, some pulse that enters the heart and lingers.
Then there always is its pace somewhere inside you — the pace of the place — its rhythms, its moods — a place you can slip into.
The North Star.
How I felt upon seeing that bright spot in the sky.
A single, bright star.
So long had I been gazing upon a different sky that I was quite shocked to see it. A single, bright, close star.
My eyes glued to the star as the taxi streaked quietly on into the gloaming, and the star through the window grew only brighter.
And again, she thought that she might cry.
To England, where my heart lies.
Sweet hymnal music and the chirp of springtime’s birds.
Brickwork, colours so varied and subtle, aged. Repainted, refreshed, changed, restored.
Pink Mayfair! Oh, glory!
Just to walk there — here, there, and everywhere — just to walk there is to live. Not for so long — so long — have I felt so alive.
Found in a Notebook, titled ‘Au Printemps. St Kilda Botanical Gardens. A sunny Tuesday.’
Para-gliders — five of them — loop across the bright, warm blue sky. The day is cloudless, stirred by a slight, light breeze. How far can they see, from up there? A vast stretch of billowing, bloated mass of inhabited land. The ocean; the ships beyond the horizon. What do they see of me? A small, black splodge; an ant on grass, as insignificant as the winged ant that just now alights upon my scribbling page.
On the subject of insects — there are bees about, hovering peacefully above the clusters of yellow daisy-like blooms that sprout from the grass in ragged patches wilted by the sun. The occasional fly goes by my ear.
Another sky-watcher makes his way across the blue; a light plane, mumbling and growling back and forth, the light shining silver on the white body of the plane.
Sunbathing season has begun. The lawns are littered with girls baring themselves to the warm spring sun, so I am not out of company with my cotton bath-sheet to spread upon the grass. Contented-looking babies are wheeled about the gardens by their mothers.
Distant, high-pitched screams come from above, as another para-glider’s chute opens with a strange crackling roar.
The breeze feels layered; it buffets across my skin in alternating, mingling streams of cool, dry, quick air, and pockets of languorous, humid warmth.
Magical: Day One 