Monday, 8 August 2016

Aquamarine (August)

In our mid-evening circle of lamplight, where words are inscribed that may never see day, or a solid imprint, or the moneyed theatres of writers festivals, my thought comes free of any contract or false expectation. The stone enclosure of Chartres Cathedral is where we’ve been, its myths sunlit aquamarine and ruby, its apostles resolute with mercy. Paris isn’t the same, its august hotels and star-struck traffic eager to reward vanity, to make a virtue of evil. But my mind stays undistracted by capital debts, writing into the night favourite memories of charity, using a railway station biro of aquamarine.    

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