The air’s electrically-lit between each of the eight trees – their roots breaking the grey and moss-green, late-night, cobbled surface.
Such sudden change; a moment of momentum.
If I walk over the water and across the road, I’ll be merged with the final paragraphs.
Eighteen years and a day since they held hands – one twelve, one eight, one six, one twenty-five – and were bought, and were sold.
Chaos to get into.
The tattered tethers of the known to leave behind.
The life, suspended, lives nonetheless inside, its mind in the past, its present; my mind in the present, my past.
There are clouds, in flux from grey to white, in the blue that the grassed hill climbs into, some walls of stone and little paths mark it, near the trees, for settlement.
“You’re a… spirit. Or a stroke…”
“Or a girl.”
“Or a Cheshire Cat.”
An accordion and a clarinet once danced together before a set of drums, and the aural ghost of their exchange is frenzied as it floats around the café room.
The wind stabs among the players every couple of bars,
a forceful beat formed by the rustle of the trees.
I keep my seat, for now alone, my mind as the morning and the city: awake and peacefully awaiting more.
I give voice to her name again, though I do not shift my gaze.
The Floating Harbour shall be under a Free Culture license.
Exaggerated, fabricated praise.
For All The Syllables, The Words…