Sunday, 22 November 2015

Buckenham Again

In they drift, from across the broad-bottomed Yare valley and beyond. My solid ground, their purview, my perspective partial. Is their rhythm in their influx, cause and effect that were I to look long enough I would perceive? I know the shape of things; the first opening chapters of aggregation, the caesuric interlude, the third phase of swirling, screaming biomass, the final act of downrush then all dusky, chattered coda.  But tonight, as ever, I doubt the completion of the story; tonight my fears say the narrative will be broken. I have ruined it with my clumsy stroll up the platform; I have come too late, gone too early, been an interloper. Exiled, I should not have come here.

But I cannot break this, nor yet can I impose sense on it, just be in it once again, now in sound, now in crepuscular drizzle. To see all would be to be wise of the sense of it, but to not see it does not mean there is none. Let it be. Let it always be. And breathe.

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