Friday, June 03, 2016

Lines written at the base of High Wheeldon

This evening, my fate became entangled with Samantha Morton's and thereof I was granted free admittance to a John Cooper Clarke gig in Bakewell, thanks to his manager, Phil Jones. 
Two days before, I had visited the churchyard of St. Mary Magdalene in Tanworth-in-Arden, contemplated, by the oak tree, mortality in being so close to Nick Drake's bones;
The trudge of blood, hlud, in my throat, my dog's coat, soft as days-old grate-ash, tangible only when my knuckles were pitched and then glancing-kissed by fingertips and wrist sensitive to pulver.
No one knows how I take up space, how my fate precludes their own.