Monday, 25 April 2011

Good Friday

Under the cliff in the midday sun, the chalk and the sea. Left, right onward pace. My left wrist hotter, the only thought I give to my watch. It's a day of easy heat. Let the sun in, no one will burn, it will let itself out.

Nothing to be tired for, but a rest in the garden is something to do. A young girl is basking and fluttering with her sister on the grass. Her mother's finest work, stretched, skinny, and unaware. Early in the day I said all birth should stop. The race should end. We're all past saving, all we can do now is give the earth back.

We go to the church, well the grounds, well the graves. Our divine vision, he must be a raven, he's the biggest crow, flying, commanding. He lands and walks, limping. Walking got me here, but it's all I can do, left, right, sometimes backwards.

We read the gravestones, the big, black bird never far away. People who die have whole stories in their names. I vow to change my name before I die. I see a name for a famous woman. I resurrect Lena Scola. The bird calls from a tree. Was she adored? Did she wear rubies and silk? I see the bird drinking at the pond. I look for Lena Scola again, to be sure I didn't imagine her name. Was she a teacher, a baker of bread? Did she stand in the spotlight? I hear birds' wings. Did she rest softly?

We find a bench. The bird is on the wall, passing time, watching us there.


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