Crunching over iced spaghetti to a familiar place. Little lego houses touched by sun amongst the frozen air. Fingers throbbing through a peaceful still winters morning. The town beneath me easing into the day, the constant hum, the disembodied voices bringing their usual interruption. Rustle of anoraks and scamper of hardened paws. Watching them become the mist, free and eager, oblivious to this pain. I’m jealous for a moment, I want to run with them, fast, irresponsible and untroubled. But the feeling fades with the image and I slot back into my inert emptiness.

All the old words frozen into the ground, under the sturdy table, the moments, the minutes, the transience of feeling. Out now to the heavy dense horizon. White souled, our smoked cathedral, hiding behind it all. It’s all still here, the permanence under the changes. The truth carved out in the land, the things that cannot go, that lie waiting for release, the inescapable under everything. Coated in the cold ephemera of change, of trying and persisting on top of it all, of movement and life. It’s all here, waving at me in the statued twigs bending in the wind. In the bird call squeaky door that pierces the landscape – everything is white and quiet in the noise. Shy blushed walls thawing in the warmth that doesn’t reach its neighbour and a pale gold inching steadily, lying across the ground.

A plane engine drills and spins to somewhere

I turn to ice

Waiting

The landscape cuts into me

I am here

Tomorrow its February

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