Ruby Street

in shade, surface shakes skins cold, deep closed under curves and covers degrees key to clouds fresh air releases you a dreamy target for memory and lines of work become music within a footstep

Seasons, cloud banks, grave routes The stillness within wandering The traces of us Roads are sidetrips, doors another weather Who thinks of the rose in the dark? The symbolic, just a dark plate To be roadworthy in ways and means How to know White dust haloes round your feet The city’s memories in bullet holes, wreathes and chisel marks A half moon, again A tiredness between sleep Those beliefs in old landscapes ... This is a little something from a sequence I'm working on; some parts of it are based around my recent meanderings around the world. The above extract was worked up from notes written while in Paris (hence references to white dust, cemeteries and bullet holes etc) in September/October during the northern hemisphere's autumn (as in, they do seasons differently up there).