The Close.

 

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Wednesday. A heron ghosts the line between sea and shore. Seagulls, police sirens, staccato, contrapuntal. The substation hums. Memories rise and fall, in and out. Dangerous currents, fragile roof, a smashed pine wardrobe lies dismembered in a front garden. Short cuts across the grass, desire lines. A hyacinth flowers in a window box, Titian blue, the colour of Ariadne’s robes, painting the street in heaven and stars.
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