rush of air again, a blast from the open oceans. It stops me in the street, calls me away from my messages, the run to the paint shop, the clutched bag for life with tonight’s vittles, my surface trampings and distractions in torn, faded jeans and scuffed boots. My weeks have been a fixed mechanism of late, I move from house to shop to desk. There’ve been no mountains, only the little cathedral peak I have tried to construct in the college orchards, a triangle of black steel. Out to the cutting sheds for a run of granite for the window cill. A limestone square for the hearth, if all the money’s not gone. And in the gaps there is snow and blossom, snow in crazy perfect polka through the open car door, a crystal dust on the old leather. And the thrumming wind. All I can do is stand and watch, hope it doesn’t pick me up and dash me down.
