I watched as he landed on the window sill and then hurled himself at the glass. Flapping wildly, he did it several times. A crow. He hangs around the rubbish bins, sits on the fence. After bashing against the window he stopped and just pecked at it. He stayed there several minutes and then flew away. He did the same thing the following afternoon, then the next. It’s not our house. It’s on St David’s Road, where his ex-girlfriend used to live. Not the crow’s, his. I wonder why he does it. Was he given food from there once? A mystery.
Later, on the Prom, a seagull side-stepped a dance in the wind. Funny.
A child’s welly with handles, lost.
Roger Ackling died a few years ago. I didn’t know. He had Motor Neurone disease. He was a presence. We all vied for his attention – the tutorial list filling up the moment it was hung.
A group of lads singing Is This The Way to Amarillo? Shouting not singing.
The fishing boat thrumming. Arriving or leaving? A fisherman a large fish hanging from his hand. A sewin?
The Fire of London. I cannot fathom it. I am so sorry. More sorry than I can say. Rest in peace. And the rest, the living, may you be given the help and solace you need. x