Spectare's Descent
Concerned for coiffure and composure, ex-Mrs Spectare keys Rene on her
handset.
Rene of Basildon and Zurich. An entire ringed and dyked heptarch's dominion
distant, Dr Spectare dials her in vain. From a traditional red village
kiosk.
In character. Engaged. Was once, remember. And more. He shrugs then
seeks out The Man Within. The Compass, that is. Among a shrunk circle of
his
familiars, over fag-ends and politics and slop-spills and small sporting
talk,
he consigns an afternoon to the loose ends of discontent, to the wry jokes
drawn on the face of lament. Yah, boo. Boo who? His ever-diminishing
circles.
Circles that spin. Round on round and round again. Going Dutch? No,
double.
Pissed again? smiles Jim. Hell, Spectare sermons, is an unwedding ring.
Lore of the diminished. Circles of concern.
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
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