It is July and it is Sunday. A dark, restless Sunday. Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings.
Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars: disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness. The smoke of a short-lived fire.
The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates. The theatre! The anticipation. The muteness of the rain on a distant field.
Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms: streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes. A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil:
scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere. I cannot bear to look. Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric,
white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges. I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden: heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly.
Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense. I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here.
Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks, then themselves by the bind-**** that has taken to their blooms and stems, to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.