Mundane brilliance. Dull inspiration. Static love.

Dust has settled on the long grass during the summer months. Whipping knee high at bare skin as it runs along hidden pathways the farmer will use. An innocent breathlessness resonates with the crickets which hide themselves from easily misplaced footsteps.

The Moon Too Slow To Rise.

This would have been the field we loved in. Tracing time in our skin. Forming memories. I would have held her – she being small in my arms – as she ran her fingers through mine as we waited for the sun to rise.

Warm Summer.

That was before the bomb hit. Before they contaminated the water with chemicals which cut the stomach open. Terrace houses turned to laboratories. Neighbours became scientific rats. Before the swing sets melted, and the scream of children had not been heard.

Waiting At Red Light.

Clutch to the stars – some of which have already died. They are points of reference in the heartbreak which bursts in the sky. Embittered memories, embroiled around spoils of war; in darkness where light was once gleaned and torn out of the hearts and minds of villages, burnt in buildings of hope. The famous violinist tells that death is darkness.

The fields become an idealised vision of London.