In a room of yellow sun walls, where the paint’s as thick as icing on a cake, wintery music plays on a gramophone in the house that belongs to the forked-bearded man.
His wife somewhere in the corner of your eye, singing in the kitchen. Something cooking.
Dripping trees. Wet leaves in the colour of bat wings, fox furs, crow beaks. Fizzle in the air lost on the road in your last century coat.
The music plays a market place, a charcoal smudging in the sky over the turnpike cottage with its appealing geometries.
A market place in the old county town. Get there on the brown and red Bere Regis bus. They were organically shaped in those days - like marrows. Old men smoking, old women in old style hats talking, the yellow sun walls shut behind plum red doors with black latches that require no locks smoke spiralling from crooked chimneys.