Susan Fearn
The problem of light
At last I drive off the map. The yellow car drifts through deep and
narrow lanes. For years I longed to know the secrets of this terraced
land. You explained it all: how silence erupts on old afternoons, the
problem of light. Even now I look for the gleam of oxbows under
cold horizons.
The weeks of chaos are over, the house unlocked. Black leaves and frost obscure the moat, but the mist of spring hangs over the shrubbery. At the edge of my vision the yellow car is the only colour in this mono-chrome afternoon.
I leave at dusk. A bird flies over the moat with a warning cry.
The woods fill with night and white stars.
Page(s) 22
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