A flight at dawn, looking down on the lemon-grey rivers of France and over the dark dry creases of mountains. Strolling in tree-lined streets. Bikes and scooters beneath the Orange trees. Bronze field mushrooms on every table at the market, that tasted like heaven that night. A content yellow dog waiting outside the baker's. Playful mosaics, art made public. A red squash, sliced with a hatchet to leave a segment of a smile with teeth astray. The stonemasons' workshop in the centre of the cathedral with brilliant stained glass like a fire's eye tearing at the sun, beaming down rays like knives of light. Plums like sun nectar, ecstatic to run down a chin, a neck, a sleeve. Traffic filling the night, gushing in through the window. Old backstreets where everyone slows down. Cool squares with watching balconies waiting for the breeze. And people who stroll......
Tuesday, 21 October 2008
People who stroll
Behind my eyes, the filmscape still plays, continuous and parallel with what I do now. And it is seeping into some place of memory where I can feel it's closeness with the slightest turn of head, or at the sound of some turn of phrase whose words I do not understand. Recurrent images flood in like slow streams of threading seaweed in deep bright water, and I am tangled in with their suspended dreams.