the thorns of rosslyn
there is the hope that the wind will hold. on the bus, stiff necks craning, oranged windows framing the sky. thick pigeons squat unceremoniously, my legs numb from the climb.
a brokenhut in chrome, this is the picture to send back. falling in line, i pay a first world amount for a third world desire. a wrinkle on the face of this sky, the sudden rush of clouds. ashen hill fades further to the right, a cocktail of memories, fond and stark, the line drawings of a country chapel that pretend to be austere. a kind new to these old eyes. i dreamt of this chapel as a child in convent, i imagined the pinings one must feel in the heart for oppressive brick forms.
inside this ruddy, this flesh-eating odour of august, a sermon takes the violent shape of deliverance. a garden of thorns distemper the taste of chaste. i rest myself against the outrage of no magic as a shape takes the form of a rabbit amidst the green.
we don't write about the
heat. we cast our nets for
bigger fish, spend the night under the leaking hide of
a giant turtle. we feel it stir.