I remembered this as I watched the workmen fitting in a fibre glass mountain. Cutting the parts to intricate fit. I am intrigued beyond these and the fey pine tree telephones.
The old fuel pump down the road from where I sit today, thinking these things, is covered in spiders. Attracted by the colour? Or the excretions?
You were the first and the last and the same one in the cities and up the mountains. Cities do tire more than several thousand feet into the crags. Walking slowly where I said and wrote, like a heron a red heron she walked past the cenotaph, refusing politely. A minute in the life of the world is going by, said Cezanne, paint it as it is. Just yesterday morning Cezanne put an end to you.
Giants stalked the land then and the dark was like treacle. Loneliness that later I came to accept or even betimes, seek; was a small room with orange walls and a green wicker cabinet. Looking out across a clay pit and a 15th Century farmhouse with horse hair plaster walls and a civil war ghost cavalryman. I found his pistols in a priest hole.
We found a maze carved into a rock face and you read that the same one had been found in ancient Mesopotamia by a Victorian archaeologist. We read Scheherazade and looked at Schiele because of that.
You came to visit and you left my album of harp music on the doorstep and left without speaking. It was 28 years before I saw you again. You criticised constantly. I was diagnosed as suffering from your criticism.
Now you are thousands and seven criticisms away and I don't know what to say. Apologies are for the initiated and the landscape of sorry is Bosch bedevilled and sealed hermetic written.
Once long ago and far away in the north, we watched people escaping a fire in Woolworths. We knew that some had died and we held hands closely because you were married. You had auburn hair and you became a model and I a teacher. And then you were a teacher and I made films. Then I sold trees and you looked after a gallery. Where we met.
This is about, you and you and of course you, finger pointing and shaking. When we met and fought and eventually fell. Long ago and far away yesterday and here. We are platonic lovers and we always have been however old our souls are.
Leave me messages and say good morning. Leave me notes and say goodnight as we go to our separate beds in our wondered rooms of glass.
© Copyright 2017 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.
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