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.

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......