Fog on the fence palings

What can you do? Imagine there’s some secret; a little rarely seen spotted beetle whose wings (lighter than dandelion spores) when consumed lift you up and out to soar the line of the coast where the waves eat at the shore and the winds gather rebellious to buffet trees. The answer, when found, is rarely the answer and so often the answer isn’t found. We carry these bodies on our backs; the bitumen is hard and cold, the white lines run before us out of sight. It shows itself straight this road but there will be sudden bends and gravel verges on which to slide. I remember being seventeen and how the stars were more magical than distant. I’d stand outside and watch for movement and fly with every shooting moment. These days it’s difficult to shoot my thoughts that far. I try but they fall like fog on the fence palings.


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