Sze No. 5
The brickline of fences in Cheltenham, medium and
low, then ragged crumble where a vehicle crashed into a letterbox, and it is
indeed cold Monday. That was a while ago but this is Monday. The networks of
wires above the highway and their random lights are training the eye to rest on
clouds of white and rose and lemon. Ragged objects in vacant fields could be
papier-mâché. Junked computers on a corner, no one is reading this at the
moment. Tickets after the show scurry for the carpark corners. The headache
continues and the capsule packet is empty.
The body is carrying a painful argument that it
wants to put off then wants to resolve and a little dream of Venice in this cold
wind will help. The Venice of pink and white brick walls, sudden stone bridges
over canals, motor launches of varnished splendour is in my mind. We could, we
could find a little time to step across the white stones, their hand carvings
centuries in the making.
But that is hardly going to last. It is the
meteorites that we don’t notice in our argument. They are buried in the earth
in big round grey shapes to a depth of miles and they hurtle elegantly above
the evening clouds like wrapped-up parcels somewhere over near Jupiter.
Advertising at railway stations behaves as though nothing will happen like a vast grey
ball of stone five hundred miles across crashing into Highett or Hawksburn or
does it really matter by that stage. Tyvek is so cute and water can pass right
through it.
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