A taxi driver. A good man it seems. Gone. Brutally killed. I don’t know what to do with such knowing. Such knowledge. The bells will ring in Eccles. Rest in peace.
A kite is caught, wrapt in the wires of the lights that hang between the lamp posts on the promenade. A cheap kite. Plastic. No wind. It was still as I walked past in the dark. Dark. Still wary. I was brave on Thursday as I walked into it. For the birds. I walked into it for the birds. In the end it was for me. What a joy. What a treasure. Art at its best. Life-changing. Transforming. That undulating lake of blue light, the cuckoo bellows, the white dot-to-dot bird, the streak of the kingfisher. Magical. What can I say?
I am stilled by the joy and the grief of it all. This life. His life. I don’t know what to say. Other than thank you. For this. This experience, however fragile, however uncertain. Even the dark can bring a transforming. Yes.