The day decays. Like bubbles popping on the beach after a wave has passed, I tell myself. The waves stroke the beach and leave it. Foam and seaweed, and the bubbles popping: that’s how it is. That’s the decay of the day.
What shall I do now?, I ask myself. No Visitor with whom to cross the Moor. No rats to chase away, the black box where they lived smashed up and in pieces (I should clear it up …) A half drunk bottle of wine. Beyond the backs of the houses opposite a tree turns in the wind. The whole tree, which still has leaves.
Didn’t my Visitor and I find the lane beyond that tree? Didn’t we find our way to the boarded-up hospital from which this part of town began (the hospital in Spital, this finger of land, outside the city, the Tounges)? And the retirement village, oddly still, no cars – we learnt that we were not supposed to be there …
Summer moves away, all of it, like some great animal. The whole of summer turning away and departing. This is the new season …
The day’s run out, winded. There’s nothing of it left. Bubbles popping on the beach. A beach of stones, as at Brighton beach. It wasn’t long ago that we sat there, on the beach. Summer pops with the popping bubbles. Half a bottle of wine …
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