The Roseland Peninsula
Tell me now - how often do we live in our own description? (Charles Tomlinson)
Looking west, the hill has no house so you imagine one. Curved stone lintels. A deep-set door where you’d expect. Outside, an unassuming car with cassette tapes in the glovebox and on the passenger seat, last week’s tide times. Here and there clumps of hydrangeas burst a stupid blue giving the impression from where you sit, of a garden — and the more you look the more the house obliges with fire in the fireplace, with those ochre curtains she made all crooked on the pole and her face as she leant to kiss you goodnight — blocking, for a moment, what was left of the light.