Bare Trees in Winter


His is the last house, a cottage, in the village. Or if you are coming from the North it’s the first. East is sea, West is woods. For several minutes he stands at the edge of the road looking up into the dark mass. Bare trees of Winter. Looking and listening for the wood nymph who invaded his sleep. Pervaded his dreams. Sometimes he notes such things down in a Moleskine. Sometimes he writes words, sentences that come to mind. At breakfast he scribbled down; the obstruction of permanence – conjecture. A half smile on his face. Maybe it came from his reading Don Delillo’s Point Omega. He had dreamt of elephants too. An obvious reference to Douglas Gordon. But neither Psycho or Hitchcock had come to mind. Nor for that matter 24 Hour Psycho. Then he became distracted. Lost his concentration. Tonight he would read the saddest lines. Then burn her letters. To think that I don’t have her. Feel that I’ve lost her.


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