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And he stared. He looked and couldn’t turn away. In the distance no music played. It seemed that nothing existed beyond. It was just him.
it’s strange that i can call you now an old friend
refer to you as such, like furniture or a farting cat
a fixture that i’ve drawn around myself with age
something safe like a book with each page stained Read the rest of this entry »
It is 4.45am on March 12th. A flock of Canada geese is passing over my house, on the wing before long before dawn, but I am already awake, sat in the warm, still darkness of the kitchen with my hands wrapped round a mug of black coffee. The first time I ever heard Canada geese was when I was a boy in Scotland, somewhere up around Inverbeg. We used to go on family holidays there, driving up from Glasgow in an Austin Allegro to sit in a caravan by a rain-lashed lake for a weekend. If the sun did come out – moving slowly out of the shadows of thunderheads, wan and opaque, like a recovering invalid, with no heat to it – clouds of black fly would follow and we’d have to stay in the caravan anyway. I remember lying in the army surplus sleeping bag that belonged to my Uncle Ian, curled up inside the warm hibernal darkness, the seam folded over my head like a cocoon, reading the Beano by the spotlight of a weak torch. I remember hearing the geese calling overhead.