Friday, 1 June 2012
He worked in the dark. It was late summer. A long, hot summer made of golden days. Segments of light. But it passed him by. When the sun rose, big and red, he went into the dark. There was a machine like something that belonged in the workings of a submarine. A machine like a periscope. Fitted in this small room with walls that were green but could have been any colour because it was dark. The only light coming from a red bulb so as not to interfere with the process, the burning of silver onto greenish plates. You have to be careful with these things. They can slide through your hands, slice the palms. A setting of increments, timings. You can’t switch off although the desire for the mind to go wandering out of the dark with its red sun is strong. It is summer. But the days are dark until evening when work was finished for the day and night was coming down bringing more dark. To get some light and forget the periscope stamping machine he’d forgo dinner and walk through the town. The street is a wave. Shaped as a wave and the pavement has these little slates set into the flagstones like piano keys. He plays his feet down the keyboard street until there is a decision. The Half Moon like a galleon. Diamonds in lead. A railway station with its hooded bridge. Through a rusting kissing gate and the grass is very long and there are sheep and the ground rises. A hill. It rises and there are dark trees with shadows and horses. Horses in the shadows. Shadows of horses until he reaches the brow and the land falls away in another wave. Waves of wheat silvery and yellow as they ride away under the moon that is the reward after the dark.