Here goes nothing:
MacDiarmid in the park
Something about the clifftop hair,
fluid dynamics of boulders
falling through treacle, shoulders be-
hind his pelvis, not ahead of the
boots on his feet,
face mad red as he ran,
compelled to meet some irresistible force
come what may
Years later, at walking pace-
the clifftop gone, worn away, leaving
straggling vestiges that speak
like fingers jammed in a power point-
our eyes meet, but do not connect.
The bewilderment remains.
*
To tell the truth, I snapped this last Thursday, and it is already _this_
Thursday
|