If we start in the roots, then that’s something.
At the bottom, where it’s still and dark.
There’s no light.
Mostly solid matter.
Small things, crushed together into big things.
Shells and sand.
Weight and density.
Chalk and rock.
Sink your way down here, into the sediments.
It’s okay, it’s not like, being dead.
We’re just here.
The earth isn't holding us.
We glide through it.
Down further, through denser layers.
Tasting the ground.
Swimming.
Solid space.
Nothing resists.
Life, like, all around is, like, nowhere around us.
So much is here.
Feel it running through you, like fingers kneading away knots.
Correcting.
Being in it feels good.
All this everything...
Let’s go deeper still.
,
If we start at the top, then that’s something.
Waking in a funny position.
Wind whipping at our clothing.
We slept up here, through the sunrise.
We adjust.
The first stages.
The not knowing.
The slow spread of smiles over our faces.
Waking into the world.
We are here, still, again.
Manifesting, rendering, imaginary birds.
The daylight licks the clouds.
Embrace it.
Savouring the sounds.
Moving, slowly at first.
Kicking our legs.
Negotiating the air.
Accelerating slowly.
We dip and weave, spin, turn.
Then gliding side by side.
The infinite blue gradient.
Near each other, hovering in an updraft.
Touching fingertips.
Holding.
The longest time,
Then smile and break apart.
Wheeling, banking.
Dipping below the weather.
The ground far below.
Diving further.
Plummeting, playing.
We cackle.
Come with, come with!
Rapidly approaching.
The steep hillside.
Rolling now, giggling,
Tumbling,
To a halt, and still.
Panting, smiling, eyes opening.
Little pink flowers.
Some wild thyme.
Strands of sheep's wool in rough reeds.
Plant smell and mountains.
The fresh air, gulping.
Evening pinkish.
Being, perceiving,
Standing, brushing ourselves down.
Look around.
Flat-topped, snow-capped mountains.
A chill in the air.
Waterfall sound, not far away.
"It's pretty," I say.
"Pretty cold," you say.
We look at each other and smile.
There's a path through the reeds.
"Let's go there."
Nearby, a stream.
We find the edge and look at wet stones.
Born from the mountain.
We follow the trickle downhill.
We walk with it through the heathland.
Like dry old hair.
Stones and sandy rubble.
There's a marshy patch, sodden.
We've reached the swamp bottom.
We stand and look.
"Flies."
We walk around it and follow the fence.
After a short while, there's a metal stile over barbed wire.
A few steps up, a few steps down.
From wild ground into a sort-of back garden.
Minimally tended to, inside a rope fence.
A campsite, maybe, in summer?
The house is peeling paint.
We walk around it, quietly, to the front.
A wide dirt driveway, a silver people carrier.
No people.
Tree-lined.
The pebbles end.
A concrete road with no pavements.
Look left.
The dotted central line, straight into the distance.
Into the wilds.
"Let's go right."
There are houses, nestled in the valley.
At the bottom of the road, we reach the old harbour.
Piled boulders.
The sea wall, and shrapnel.
Boats in stands, rusting.
Tidal lapping, moss and weeds.
Streetlights.
A fishing hook.
There is nobody here.
A red house, a green house.
A chill in the air.
We kick through scraps of rope, shell, netting.
A long-dead gull and some bits of plastic.
The last house at the end of the path.
The weathered blue gate is swinging in the wind.
A sagging front fence.
We walk through.
Slab steps over damp grass.
Step, step, step, like a game.
A whale vertebrae in the flowerbed.
“Are they growing a whale?”
The sun is sinking behind the mountains.
The sky is bruising.
This day, dying young.
An overturned tricycle.
Closed curtains.
Gutter creak.
Dead bush.
Winter is coming.
The front door.
You touch it and it swings open.
Inside, dusty mail.
A shelf of ornaments.
A blue glass elephant with a broken trunk.
Old coats, hanging.
Musty.
A greasy stove, a hanging apron.
It's quiet, we notice our breathing.
Walking slowly.
An open double door, into the study.
Shelves groaning silently under weight of books
Slowly yellowing.
Someone sits behind the desk.
Cut glass decanter, whisky on ice, a heavy-bottomed glass.
Smoke rising from the ashtray.
Old hair, combed neatly.
Contracting pupils.
Wordlessly regarding.
Linked fingers, crossed legs.
Neatly pressed trousers with vertical creases.
US flag pinned on blazer lapel.
A pile of papers.
State secrets,
They look to the window,
It has started to snow.
Dream catcher, green crystal, bird bones.
We sit together in silence, looking out.
Just being things that were.
Nothing dies, not really.
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