(And I am nearly there and it's Saturday and I wake and before sleep has quite left me I sit me down and I pull up a picture and it doesn't matter what picture and I dream myself into the start of a new day and I set those dreams into small words and I lay them down before you... step lightly for you step on my dreams! Ha!)
(141)THE ARMCHAIR TRAVELLER
Merrigo doesn’t go far. Except in his head. Sits in an
armchair turning a globe in his hand and his finger points to this place or
that and he dreams – of deserts, seas, buildings that lean, gardens all hanging
with flowers: places that were or are or never could be.
(142)HERE AND NOW
All the world. In her hands. And Petra spins it between her
fingers, catching the light just so. Anywhere she could choose. Anywhere. But
she chooses here. And she chooses now. Just where he is. As near as ever near
can be and she touches his face as he sleeps.
(143)POSTCARDS
He gets postcards. All written in the one hand. From places
far flung. Strange stamps in the corner, stranger pictures on the front. And
they are from someone called Judith, and she calls him Holofernes when his name
is Fred, and she sends him love and it shakes his world.
(144)THE ACT OF MURDER
‘All the world’s a stage.’ That’s what he wrote. And
something about men and women being merely players and playing many parts. He
stands above her body, blood on his hands and he weeps. This is more real, he
thinks, and he searches for the words for what he’s done.
(145)ANGEL DREAMS
All the wide world to choose from and he chooses here: a
dark hole in the wall of a nameless city. And Ezekiel sleeps, his breath his
only warmth, his wings curled over him, the feathers shedding, falling in ones
and twos. Ah, but in Ezekiel’s soft head what dreams!
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