In a desert, a left place turns dusty, then to dust in the onslaught of the grained winds. In a marshy, Southern place, vines creep up the external walls, bright flowers grow in a place where the roof has fallen in; the whole shell heaves with new life. In the far North, a building will stay upright for a long, long time, brittle with salt, until one day the cold brings it down, beam by beam.
Here, in this temperate, damp climate, moss pads over the stones even when they are inhabited. A tree finds the highest point, the guttering, from which it will reach out its limbs. Moss and tree, nettle and fern, and kine and sheep trampling the lot, and the last window with a view of the moor, or the farm or saddest of all, the grey sea.
I’m trying to think though of habited places making this fall and staying that way, for my third work in progress. Streets and streets shunned because of turmoil and scattered ash. Familiar places, always a little scuffed at the edges, utterly turned to broken roots and hanging wire. It’s a gloomy place for the mind to live. But I’d like to do it well. Bear with me while I’m quiet here. I’m just standing in the green and the grey breathing it all in.
(In between times I escape to read and wish for a new project with more than the smell of dankness and wild blackberries. Something with voice. Music suggestions of a cheery sort are welcome, too)