I’d be there alone, the stub of man-made hill swept to the very back of a park field. Wide and flat, stubbled with short comfy grass cut to the same barber’s setting as the unfussy aluminium heads of parish council bungalow-owners. Soft grey and subdued, loose air hangs limp between the occasional empty threats from the lazy wind. A single jumper-ed figure has been dripping gradually along the grass’ edge like condensation down the upstairs windows beyond the border hedges. The price of good insulation. When his speck reaches the park’s breathing mouth, his surface tension holds him there for a handful more shallow lungs of summer-autumn incense, sifting down under the apple trees. And then he falls out. And I wash with the familiar relief of finding myself alone. Unwatched, I spill out and fill the entire space, unpacking as to move in for the fertile minutes of intermission between the dogwalker’s sparse dayshifts.
Quit Vision 