A Land of Ghosts

  
That first deep hit of earth, freshly-beaten by heavy rain, is metal on your tongue: there is nothing more immediate and situating.

Low stone walls and broad swathes of green pasture; the Last Supper shadow of an oak.

A land of ghosts: low houses built from stone stolen from the castle up the way. Cramped quarters and cackling spilt from an inn.

A Curly-Wurly and a glass of Dandelion and Burdock; a steaming bowl of kedgeree: yes, in that order. A hot belly on a cold night: dragon’s breath.

Breathing in the sea and the city’s brine: an island’s mind. Stropping and stopping at traffic lights and zebra-crossings.

Buy one, get one on russets glazed with Marmite: “I’ll try anything twice.”

Waiting for alphanumerals in Argos; hitting walls of cold air on leaving the pub and bending home: a tangent.

Tottering past the war memorial and looking for surnames. Stopping and stealthily drawing an index finger down the etched letters.

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