“The Journey,” Susannah Hart
Travelling early, we set out while it’s still dark. At this unblessed hour, we should be wary of the threat of footpads and of cut-throats, but we are blithe with optimism, our surprising sovereigns stinging in our pockets. Our burdens are as insubstantial as the moon and already last night has dwindled to a twist of wrinkled bedclothes. How did we wake so promptly without alarm? What witchery set us bolt upright in our beds? Perhaps as the dawn begins to damage the dark, one of our number will venture: “Where was it that we were heading? Who has the map?” Day scarifies the sky, polluting our clarity of purpose. We will not answer the rank-breaker. We tear off hunks of bread with hungry teeth. The light comes up like sadness. We do not want to recognise ourselves
