Iced and singing the wind, slender as a blade, slivers through every chink in every wall, drags through clothes and skin, etches over bone, turns muscles to flint. Shoulders are tight packed gravel. Coffee swallowed, teeth grit. Under the rib cavity, a heart squeezes.
Moans of weather, beats of heart, thick-headed fretting.
Somewhere a memory shimmers: Longleat Safari Park? Legoland? A dream? A sort of park recalled. There is me and my two children walking round a maze. We are bored, in the hedge shadows. Boy is quite small so we hold him up to spy a bigger picture, a clear route.


  1. I suspect all hedges will grow into each other and make the world a garden again. Children will still need that prospect we lift them to, those glimpses of a greater world.

  2. I need that lift too right now: image of a garden world is helping :-)


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