The Town Moor: escape. We wander through the knee-high grass. What are those birds?, we wonder. What are those flowers? But we have no idea.
The Moor is like the world on the fifth day of creation, we agree — before Adam, before anyone, when everything went unnamed and unredeemed. It needs words, we agree. It needs a poet! Where is the Rilke of Newcastle to sing of the Moor?
Above us, a shore of clouds and then blue sky. — 'That's a weather front', W. says. Which way is it travelling? Where is it heading? And where are we heading, we who walk beneath it, the shore of clouds?
Is the future open to us, or closed? W. can never decide. Are we making progress, or falling behind? W. can never decide about that, either.
Lars Iyer's Blog 