I\u2019ll no longer be here to remember this view from my window \u2014 the wall, its peeling beige paint, the clothesline, the diseased rose plant still growing up the far corner.\u00a0 Snowdrops melt away, the primroses.\u00a0 Report back.<\/p>\n
There\u2019ll be no one left to remember you, you know. In the end, none of this will signify.\u00a0 There\u2019s your answer.\u00a0 Ambient, speculative.\u00a0 Full dress.\u00a0 My father was hearing, my uncle listening.<\/p>\n
Where my uncle emerged from the snicket, Ilford blacks & whites. \u00a0You never knew.\u00a0 Whatever happened to the gas board van man & the inquest papers?\u00a0 What is the cause of death?<\/p>\n
Impossible to see the aircraft against the sun.\u00a0 Just it\u2019s noise.\u00a0 The moth burst open, burnt up.\u00a0 Roundel on a sea-grey background, floating.\u00a0 The air-sea rescue boats tied up in the harbour, moored beside coastal patrol, bow to stern.<\/p>\n
Information like little sweeties, Venus bronze on her marble base, elements of a planet, a plan, a place, a place its horizon, momentary, that green balancing there, on the line, the plane disappears, its perspective, golden section.\u00a0 Pisces.<\/p>\n
What will the world give today?\u00a0 Head to tail.\u00a0 Jupiter & Saturn a speck below the horizon.\u00a0 Like dazzle ships.\u00a0 If you\u2019re going to find it there, find them, 21st<\/sup> December their golden ratio, your opportunity, a sharp light, golden ratio golden.<\/p>\n It\u2019s all about hearing it, the knock of the language, tongue scared.\u00a0 Tugs & tenders.\u00a0 Drawn up amidships, the fuselage still afloat.\u00a0 Keep the invaders out, & refrain.\u00a0 The migrants & refugees.\u00a0 On the ground.\u00a0 Out, out, out.<\/p>\n Time the other side, with father farther out.\u00a0 & uncle.\u00a0 The amber indicators, hazard warning.\u00a0 Uncle in his squadron leader blue-greys. \u00a0What are we fighting for?\u00a0 \u00a0So, you never need to.\u00a0 Poland.<\/p>\n The brick-walled ginnel running up behind connecting all the houses, the confined space like a safety catch. The sound of boots, echoey.\u00a0 & down to the sea, sand-coloured walls, the beach of chalk cobs & flinty pebbles.<\/p>\n Sand or mica.\u00a0 Misdiagnosis.\u00a0 & the rush out into the fresh air.<\/p>\n That the passage sings back, returns the song.<\/p>\n