Dim Witness.

The pipistrelle circled the darkening square and, with an ease unseen, made a wheel of it; a welcome for the rising shadow tide. The bell, the harbour bell, sang once across Penn Beacon, reaching the garden some time after. The thin brass coloured peal echoed across the three walls of the back garden and faded  faded faded … Continue reading Dim Witness.

Voided.

Voided, the ruptured milk lorry stopped feeding Steep Street and soon enough the white river knuckles became trickles puddling in gutters. The milk dribbled into drains, dribbled, dripped and disappeared. And, before their very eyes, the tarmac blackened again in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Ffooks sits on the pavement in skeins of creamed polyester, white … Continue reading Voided.

Her Picasso Gift.

I see her, Little Annie, in a shaded space on the far side of the street, vixen, stood against her trestle, beneath a tarpaulin that shivers. It is draped and slung with floating dresses, throws and scarves; tie-dye collage against a background of movement, of brickwork, of shapes and faces. She is weightless, appears so, almost … Continue reading Her Picasso Gift.