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don’t share their secrets, they send no letters. I bet this growler’s ranged far, picking out the air tunnels in the blackout using those scanner whiskers. I wonder if he logged my ride-by midnight whoosh, fresh from a trouncing at the quiz night. Too many smart cookies in this dorf. My cat’s sensor rig humbles all of them. I lie in bed waiting for the 4a.m. birdsong and I can feel the soft cool of the breeze on my face, first sign that you’ve killed the night, like Hem in the Madrid caldera, but I can’t build a picture of the air and how it moves around objects the way growl cat does. Outsmarted on all fronts.

to insulate with books. The days flutter on and the mountain is my loomings. Until then I’ll take the meter readings and gather quotes for cranked steel lintels.

to gaze upon a bluebell? Value’s set by the purchaser, weighed in coin and sacrifice. And even the rarest things, outside their momentary sparkle the value lies in depriving others of that they crave. Power by special possession. A walk through the woods is ownership enough for me. The profs get to stroll for free, if they flash a uni card. I, being uninitiated – but no less arcane – have to drop a fiver at the gate.

for old pedals. This car and I share a disdain for motoring. Morning smoke from the turbo, fuel lines and cables aching. I should wash the mats but I’d rather be reading or daydreaming. Rather be in a couchette, porthole onto the taiga, white drapes and goose down against the creeping ice. Cocktails later, joining Burroughs in the dining car to compare notes on The Outline of History.

sun swaggers out. I follow the birdsong along the rail-fence avenue, alone, skirting the flood. All of yesterday I was haunted by quarter-century old ghosts, ’till I heard a song on the radio that lifted me out of the mire, a song from those same days. What I thought I wanted never happened, but it’s dumb to pine for something I never knew. And I met other singers, heard other songs. The memory of those encounters should be sweeter than all imagined futures unexplored or barred to me. Step on, no turning back against this planet’s space-flung spin and the paths and turns it gifts you.

and offers glimpses, things you still want to try. Stare to the sparkling sea and I dream of the mountain I’ll soon visit, Ruskin’s noblest cliff, the fabled circumnavigation of the alpine valley eden and nations around its base. Each face a compass point and a white supernal dome of cupped lenticular clouds. If only I was on the tour. But I’m passing through on a three-day pass, hoping for fair weather and a view down the valley. And then on to Pollock, whispers of paint in my rain circles and window gazing, always rushing. It’s the best I can hope for, and just as I’d wished.

over the headlands and return to the lighthouse dorm. Few fellow trampers out on the trails, no sound but the surf and the gulls. Henry IV Part One in my shoulder bag, squashing the ham sarnies and the mini rolls. I’m leaner than Falstaff, don’t lard the land as I pick a route through the marsh, but I’ve spare kilos to shed, the sloth of the desk and garden-gazing hangs about me. I’ll walk on, into the sharp wind, let it knife away the pudge.

would do me, far from the crowd and the business of living, the card machines and holiday bragging. I’ll trade you the three fish I pulled from the bay this morning for a week of breakfasts in the cantina, a few beers each night, gringos will pay sixty dollars for fresh tuna. Who’s never dreamed of being a fisherman? I’ll craft you a book of poems for two months layover in the Chinese House, a camp bed and a stove and the sound of the wind in the cedars.

at the Temple of the Worthy, for a sundowner and lakeside banter. Do only the ruthless win the right to be etched in stone, or can the hapless, the dreamers and lazers earn a place on the crescent? I’ve written some words that mean a lot to me, but can they touch the hearts of others?

number. Roerich claimed the trio of dots in a circle were church, science and art held within infinity. Maybe if I was up at Everest base camp and I saw them daubed on a rock I’d feel the same way? The three ages, the unwritten trilogy, three-piece rock bands always the best, triangles as cornerstone of geometry and Ruskin, three fingers of whisky, my past present and future, here there and everywhere as I pad out for my morning coffee. And three Norns spinning those threads of fate.