Wednesday, February 13, 2013


There: in Scotland, peat, a fog, a forgotten evening.
So much, so much happened, I can't remember it all, I wouldn't want to remember it all.
Of the following morning of the forgotten evening, the peat, the fog, a cup of tea, a goodbye.
And then the silence; silence, silence stretching across the moors as the train followed the North Sea south, south, into silence.
Civilization gathers and buzzes: movement, people, footsteps, schedules, departures, a pause before changing trains, changing stations, a decision.
Was it the right decision, there, so far from the peat and fog? I cannot say.
I cannot say.
The silence stretches, the conductor in his scarlet uniform collects my ticket, I wonder.
I cannot say.
Deep in folds of memory the fog gathers, the peat fire smokes, and in the winds of time all of this will dissipate, forgotten; or it will crystallize, grow strong, pure, elemental.
I cannot say; the silence stretches between us, the fog, the peat.