The first of the Beaujolais was in
but I was experimenting with green ginger wine.
Epic histories, cosmic journeys
arrived in brown parcel paper. Recordings of Django Reinhardt...
We agreed to meet on a Saturday.
His car was a little white Datsun.
He wore a Harris tweed jacket and a wrist watch that he had found on a golf course in Essex. Jeans, white trainers and a baby blue sweatshirt.
Glastonbury was a good mix he said. People got on with their lives. A working town. He went there to do his laundry.
We climbed The Tor. I was conscious of his breathing as we traversed the hill.
Strange shapes in the landscape. Green rills.
Sheep and apple trees.
An aeroplane that put me in mind of a Lancaster bomber
skimmed St. Michael's tower.
The ground shook. I could see the pilot's eyes.
A piece of Welsh slate in an incense scented mystic shop.
Purveyors of fine Gothic goods.
Rain and smoke light rising.
Banks of cloud.
A lifetime later a long dead butterfly clings on in the dusk.
Others join in and attach themselves to the wall. Life leaves their wings.
Red and white eventually turns mollusc black.
They wait. Shrivelled and dead.
But I'm not sure if they've realised.
The growl of thunder.
(Quick! Unplug the television. Turn the mirrors to the walls...)
Wings, dry dust,
bodies, hollow husks
The Rifleman's Arms.
Alcoholics in leather,
Time leaps forward.
A bass note catches my imagination.
A refrain that goes 'looking inside...'
In the morning, of another decade but still only a day or two later
I wake with a square of Avalon sky framed above my bed.