A finely crafted lot of letters nailed into its door, the room, so full in retrospect, slept – spacious; silent.
The walls of mud-made brick that bind and shape the space they share start to compress – contracting in upon themselves; sharp shuddering.
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.