This journey, if it is one, in all its shock and awe, seems more a repeated weekly horror than a narrative of years.
Statues toppled in cindered market places. The dead forgotten.
Repeat.
Some things, simply, exist. And others don’t, didn’t. It is decade through a looking glass. A decade of mangled language where lies were revealed as one of the few truths. The reports are being buried. It has been a long winter. We are in poverty.
Street lights go out. Daffodils begin to bow their heads. Early sun burns the mist from the water. Next year, the same?
MW Bewick 