The Black Country

Is moving sideways still staying on the path?

Well, thought I would ask
– to make sure that a deprived thought of line could evaporate somewhere.

While the old lady next door drags out her bins underneath the large pine tree, half eleven at night, I hide in a dream with Jeremy Clarkson. That’s just about the right volume of detail you need.

Days pass by and I never spend enough time here.

Out here, in the countryside, darkness is interestingly fragile, so when a light comes on somewhere it can only be the milk man on Monday morning (4.30am) or the bin lorry on Wednesday morning (shortly after 7am).
Sometimes I stay up and read until the peacock makes its first roaring noises (it always reminds me of the horn of an old Ford). About the end of the world, boiled eggs  or why neon light is so different underground.

Never have I been so touchingly close to nature.

There is always a handful of options out there – meaning you got your hands full at any one time of day. I felt the birds nest in my feeble letterbox was sincere proof of that (not that the postman with the long ponytail had felt the same..). They just moved in, it must have seemed like a penthouse with a view to their tiny eyes.

Haven’t seen them ever since.

Pension in the post and a couple of leaflets. My retirement age appears to change every four years, with political inclinations and social shifts. Ah not that it mattered, time was never fluid enough to matter in the first instance.


The concept of fading away somewhere in the black country does, though.

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