Two paths curve t’ward an empty cradle.
Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
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.