The Sense We Make
Dedicated to the memory of Laura Denaire Harris 19th May 1975 ~ 31 October 2018 We travel a road copper-edged in dropped leaf. Under crooked branches a filigree of gold and shade falls upon us. A burst of starlings, as though blown from the boughs: silhouettes swooping through blue, in a bloom of sunlight. We cross a shining river on a sturdy bridge, each arch has a shadow-shimmer on the water below. Pass a thatched cottage where a rose shakes in the bite of the breeze. The air has no warmth beyond the sun’s reach. We walk through the town to find the right church; pass paramedics kneeling by a man who is prone on the street in a sleeping bag. There are people at a cashpoint queuing, subdued. Passersby viewing with concern. A busker without a coat, his face pinched pink. Shops open, some lit for Christmas. In a gilded doorway, a couple ask directions from a lady who points as she speaks. We find the church, the hearse - this is just part of life,