Walking
03. 12. 21
Names change and memory fades, Bates Island becomes St. Mary’s Island. A lighthouse is built.
Salvaged
Standing in front of you in that hot and airless room, your frightened uncomprehending eyes unnerved me.
On a ten mile meandering walk.
This landscape, rough pasture, flooded fields, flashes forming where ground is subsiding. Skirting a lake where the path should be.
Relics
Going for a stroll, that’s what we did, come fair or foul weather. The dog needed his walk, whatever. And this was the game. Stop. Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear. The wind…
Low Tide
Picking up a pebble, round and smooth, sand clinging to its wet surface. Rubbing it between fingers and thumb, I drop it into my coat pocket where it will probably stay. The promenade’s quiet today, the small skate park, busy.
Room With A View
Cold morning light. Runners, dog walkers, people on their way to work passing shelters already vacated. Sleeping bags, carrier bags, hold alls stowed under benches. Apart from one shelter.