just a few shufflers, spook-eyed, how-this derelicts and an early runner, a slow-moving decorator in the saloon bar where we used to sup back in ancient days. A time when a roll of £300 would last me for weeks and all that mattered was the next rendezvous, the next open car door and show to play. All the while that crazy breath in the air that we were free, chasing after what’s got to come, no looking back on what’s been. I step quickly away from the beer hall.
Alone now in the streets of little brick houses. Here would be a fine place to hide away from the world, Riverman had said. They might not bother you here. You could lock the doors and work on your poems and yarns, prowl out to the Punter for evening drinks, sharing fantastic tales with them that chug up and down the canals. Hang a kayak in the back garden and foray out at dusk, exploring secret waterways. Crepuscular as a barge cat, stepping silent through the riverbank bushes. I feel sure I’ll find him here.
