Far to the right floats a communication station with a high mast. It sprouts out from behind leafless and lifeless trees and beams invisible messages out in all degrees. The whole area blurs and blisters into another place that doesn’t belong here; the building is an echo of substance that forces you to tighten your vision just to give it form. Sky and earth are in unison behind the barrenness of the branches, oak spectres that farm the fields, toiling slowly as they wait for the sun to push through the clotted clouds.
Almost there, the satellite town shuffles slightly as we drive into the used-to-be, into the far past, where the luminous green conifers stalwartly cover the side of the house as they always have.
Deep in the ’burbs, perfect lawns and not a soul in sight. And, oh Lordy, what trimmed hedges Mrs Markham has across the road, but do the drapes match the curtains?
I pay the taxi man, give him a crooked smile and get out into the wet air.
Almost there, the satellite town shuffles slightly as we drive into the used-to-be, into the far past, where the luminous green conifers stalwartly cover the side of the house as they always have.
Deep in the ’burbs, perfect lawns and not a soul in sight. And, oh Lordy, what trimmed hedges Mrs Markham has across the road, but do the drapes match the curtains?
I pay the taxi man, give him a crooked smile and get out into the wet air.
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