The cliffs went tumbling, making way for water and its irresistible surge that even time couldn’t stop. The rocks rumbled. One person dead.
And by the greyest of all the rivers the gothic palace began to crumble, its stone so soft you could brush it away with a fingertip, polishing it into nothing.
On our little beach the hard pebbles of the shore are covered with slippery weed. It’s difficult to walk. The buzzards lope above. The sky is ever so blue.
Where do we go to when all the signs say move, move…?
They do not listen to me and I do not care. They shout amongst themselves, deaf to pleas of order, order. I have a plan. They know but hardly share their thoughts. They only vainly oppose, and meek protestations coalesce into a sticky goo. I laugh, send deputations of sneering divisiveness: a ploy. Do my bidding, go on. They dance their merry dance even as the weight of disapproval comes, swinging low, the murmurs turn angry. But noise means nothing. It fades. I do not listen. I walk out of the door. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.
Horses, statuesque and all in line. Black coats, chestnut and white. Lush manes and tails. Snorting horses standing tall. A sight to behold. A historical site. Black riders, yellow vests, black helmets. Fluorescent yellow. A bright flash across a grey street, the muddle of a crowded square, seen from a helicopter, a camera on a crane. A horse’s slow walk forward. Then the rest, following: fifteen. The horses trotting, horses at a canter, into the street, the public throng. Horses at a canter, the crowd divided, falling and crushed. A black and yellow blade to the heart of a hope.
A light aircraft just dropped out of the sky, enmeshed, literally, in its own trail of propaganda. Over our own heads are helicopters and, down in the square below, hundreds of office workers have congregated for a fire drill.
We are booking my birthday meal and discussing people’s relationships: how friends are feeling; what might happen in future.
I have made an Earl Grey tea with an out-of-date tea bag. Now it’s back to work.
The sun is out. Tonight we will drink.
Things go up. Things come down. It’s how they land that counts; the state we’re all in.