Image by Shruti Khanna from Pixabay
Work of Forgetting
I travel by a stagecoach often down adventurous avenues, wool -gathering a landscape through which stagecoaches arrive and go. This is what I see today: – a wide-eyed traveller; the ground turning to mud streaked with the furrows of a coach ahead; the streaks filling with water like a silver sky beneath the mud; that sky grasping its clouds like handfuls of adjusted flowers. The horses are blinkered, running in and out of sync; the hedges blur with naked twigs like rain in chaotic wind. In the mud-flecked distance, a generic town. In the road, mounting a rise, a deer. Somewhere beyond this is the unmade sea to which all this is (headlong) rushing. The frantic landscape churns with life until I wake, rushing along myself, the sky drawing a blank above, my coach swaying and tilting. Through the window I see fields of sheep, recalling a time I would never have noticed them, the road slipping beneath the wheels, the wheels rotating like an eye.