Spanish Banks
Read More
Isolated Salmon Stream a Mourning Sky
A few feet from the boulevard the stream emerges with a slow murmur and within yards begins to babble and splash down the hill, its vigour swells and spreads as it goes. Then reaching its lateral channel it hits an artificial berm and spreads out into a series of ponds. Looking for the sea, just short of the beach, twisting and turning it meets a steel sewer gate and is swallowed whole. Standing on the grate I wonder at this indiscretion of ours, and the magnitude of the loss.
After the rains have lifted, a cold effulgent light penetrates a multiplicity of bifurcating limbs, an etching against the stillness of the pond. A thick woody trunk emerges from the turf its milkiness almost obscured by old wounds and moss, is its twisted frame a cantankerous reaction to the surrounding chaos?
There is always one that dances. It has been raining heavily as the spent clouds begin to open with cracks of light then sky, reflections begin to shimmer and looking up I see a grove of trees but one is dancing. There is always one who dances, even on a sidewalk with the staccato movement of the rushing crowd. There is always an individual legato movement, always one who moves with elegance and fluidity. Like the sidewalk dancer here in this November grove one tree performs a rapturous pirouette against the sky.
