The end of the south, or so it seems. The train journey through small places, the land locked in its ancient ways; the desperate teenagers with escape looming large in their minds, all decked up (or is that down?). Basildon man in front of you, red-necked and a brown balding skull. A sort of bigot-or at least you imagine. Is Basildon, after all.
Fairlop Fair was a flop. 250 years of tradition reduced to a few women in beards prancing about and some awful songs.
~~~
At southend: the blustering wind, our teacups flying off in all directions; we hold on to our paper plates for dear life and gulp down our lukewarm tea with a great sense of urgency. Nothing's quite right. England's gone, and the last fish shop is closed for the summer. Even anton's author sounds a bit fake-and her recommendations are never wrong.
3 comments:
hey, those first two pictures are really lovely! did you take them???
especially the first one, such amazing clouds, such a feeling of openness, endlessness, of heavenly quiet
yes, i did..and thanks! wish I'd brought the nikon now. khair...
heavenly quiet? what's that? sends shivers down my spine. yikes! have i become a kaffir?
orr?
b.
forgot to add the poem! (old age, old age! :-) )
You had to look away
from what you remember...
And here it is again:
a mute, spatial awareness of how things are,
unlearnt, unlearned;
its grammar something understood
before you stepped out into the lights
and strange seeping-away clatter
of the Underground
Edgeware Road, Regent's Park, Marlyebone-
wayside shrines
of your journey in the dark.
--Fiona Sampson.
Post a Comment