Suggestion of motion in a tawny shape. A buzzard, I think. Body the size of a cat.
The motorway laid out before me. Some effect of the sun and rain makes the surface, the white markings, strangely vivid, extra-dimensional like the pages in a pop-up book.
Natural urge, compulsion, to poke your finger into the scene.
Greenish clouds melded to the sky to form a sort of tunnel.
Suggestion of motion, catches, as we the say, the eye – the corner, seen from the corners
of your eye as if the eye is a room from which we have a view
of motion, the breath-taking wingspan
in a darkening room penetrated by moonlight
aftermath of something gone wrong, belly up, as we casually say
someone following instructions too literally
an unmade bed by the window through which we can see the moon babbling on thesea-surface.
A man in chinos rests one foot on a wall. Looks out, I think, to sea.
Waits for messages – and, as you know, we picked them up in the dark, collected through headphones and kept as dreams to be shared in the unreality of morning.