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Wanderlust Sky develops watercolour grey, some offered remains seeping through the evening, loose and running down into November. This road to night gyrates, the bus clock reflected in the emergency glass suggesting that slumber May be good and right. Towns creak with memory, the necessity of travel Bringing everyone back home, where childhood surrounds forgotten glens, hidden hills. |
Welcoming We cosied out our own alcove as waves dug in from the bay. Terraced house, planted in the snug of the south, a woman’s voice coming through like warm, milky tea, the rattle-rag-tag bag of glasses, song and friendly heckle all taken from the same throats. We sit where we can, logistics of friendships mapped out around tables, dear old hands reaching ours, new cheeks given out for the kiss, spotlight of mother tongues by the fireside. Some crown us the friendliest nation there is and tonight we’re proving it. |
Woodlands The way inside is always thin, a needle eye, a bobby pin of gravel, leaf, with grass tramped down, the first few steps into a lawn. On either side lie solid trees that stand as still as loyal sentries, their season’s silence never broken despite the breeze, branches shaking. You hear the beat before the sight, the trickle beyond the first gate. Old movements will get attention, the water’s call for inspection. You’ll never know you’re in the heart until you feel the darkness start: tree-lined shadows, cloistered tree rings and then, surprise, sudden clearing. All avenues held together by single thread of wild river. The slow trek by the riverbank, admire its foam, its light, its inks indelible upon the reeds and then, see ducks, in rows of three; behind them, lines of broken Vs, ahead of us, the watchful trees. Inclined to climb away from this to lofty heights, adventurous and daring more, with every step, our breath is somewhere up the slope with everywhere, the silhouettes of grounds we have not gone to yet. |
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