|
{after-birth} david caddy back in the days of centre partings, when gentlemen doffed their hats to strangers and old people were those that walked into the river or hid under a bridge, I had a dog called Sue. The wind told her a fantastic story. I caught the periphery of her vision. We jumped the wire fence that subsided in our making and lifted our legs to meet whatever lay ahead. She burned for days. Implied that I should prod the door, walk out with a stick. She slept in the tool shed, with the jackdaw, by the paraffin heater, and never came on heat. I minced her tripe. Someone was lost, trying to find a way. We walked a steady line along the grind, ears pricked, negotiating real and perceived obstacles with trust and luck, waiting for the next call or crack. I could read, hear the breeze listening in, following a trail that began to stare back in more than distance. My foreboding appeared in a rush from the legs of a woman and Sue growled long and hard at our find. |
