The soundtrack to dying is not that of Death’s winged chariot hurtling from the sky, but rather one of nurses’ trainers sticking on worn lino, of saline drips ticking over, of low, urgent voices in hospice corridors.
I am the city. I live amongst you, around you, underneath you. My breath is imperceptible; it heaves beneath you nonetheless, twisting the tarmac of your roads and making the timbers of your house creak. Dotard. Not for one moment do you see yourself as anything less than master of your own destiny. You are as fleas upon my broad flank. Continue reading “I am the City | Short Story”
haiku writing this week seems to have brought me onto the theme of municipal works. Go figure… Continue reading “Rain and Rumble | Haiku”
We children used to watch Mr. Mason from our bedroom window. Our house overlooked his garden, and it was there that the old man could be found come sun or shower, dawn or dusk. Mr. Mason’s garden was as fine an example of composted soil as could be seen anywhere in England, I’ll be bound. So it should have been. The soil was worked relentlessly with pitchfork and spade, a churned mass of aerated, loamy mulch. Once he had worked his way from one wooden fence to the other, Mr. Mason would simply take a sip from the canteen in his trouser pocket and begin working his way back again. Penelope, my sister, said he was mad.
As we appear to be approaching another general election in the UK, it is time for the re-emergence of an oft-kicked political football – the regeneration of town and city centres around the country. This particular topic never fails to mildly irritate me; footage of politicians bemoaning the state of our high streets is spliced with interviews with dour shoppers, each telling tales of a halcyon era where delivery boys rode their bicycles over cobbles and when shoppers were on first name terms with the butcher, the baker, and the long-lost candlestick maker. Sentiments such as revitalising our towns obviously test well – politicians of all persuasions would not keep using them otherwise. Nevertheless, my initial instinct is to scoff. Why, after all, should we spend money on persuading people to return to somewhere they do not wish to frequent? Continue reading “The Town Centre – a Place Worth Fighting For? | Opinion”
Down from the mountains and onto the beach with a couple of haiku this morning… Continue reading “Snow and Salt | Haiku”
It feels as though a lot is expected of me today. Strange, because there is really nothing left unresolved. The coffin awaiting its descent into the frosty ground is testament to that. It lies there, a timber cuboid. The ultimate full stop.