My Diary

I saw the day start like the damaged arch of a ruined abbey – flying bats and the very imaginative can hear the voices of long dead singers (I couldn’t recognise the song although I instinctively knew the chorus – in the same way that a baby is always born a Buddhist). Even though it was a rain soaked Sunday I had an early walk across the girders of the made up town. I stood like a sentry on the railway bridge trying to make figurative shapes from the aggressively mathematical patterns of rusting tracks laid out below me – a blackbird confronted the street light as we both felt something come up behind us. A shape beckoned and I drew the image of an early Bronze Age bell barrow on the side of its futuristic helmet; neither he or I knew who was buried inside.

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