It had been a long, cold and intense night. Decaying leaves and general woodland dross still clung to and fell from my jacket as I made my way through a gap in the hedge and finally emerged onto a narrow potholed lane. Opposite; an overgrown trestle bench, the only sign of what may have once been a bus-stop, offered at least a place to rest and roll the first ciggy of the day. I could see...
We were always here. Before ‘This’, before ‘That’. Before the beginning of ‘Things’. Before this and before that. Before the beginning of things. First, you perceived us as the wind in branches, the chiming fall of a stream, the shaking of the earth beneath. You pointed and named, made wordsounds, scrawled signs in the drying mud. So clever. You condescended to call us ‘Spirits’,...