I am stood here again; gazing down at the side of the road where the grit and the black dirt collect. I picked something up the other day, it was shiny and familiar. It’s here in the pocket of my jeans. I can’t remember its name or its function.

Rain has started and the wind has picked up. A car passes closely followed by that airstream rush and spray. A deafening noise then and the feeling of being dragged violently underwater – bright blue and orange lights flash and disappear into a kaleidoscope blur.

Silent again, except for the birds singing, and the rain.

I can’t work out why I am here, though I have stood here a few times before, staring at the grit and the dirt by the side of the road. I can’t remember the before or the after but there are memories, sounds and smells slowly etching themselves together but I can’t work it out.

I fumble with the metal object in my pocket. The rain comes down harder now. There’s a deep cut into the soft grassy verge; it runs about 20 feet and then into the hawthorn hedgerow that shields the small wood.

I look up, surprised to see a sky pale blue, with soft shifting clouds and 6 swallows criss-crossing their courses across the Sussex heavens.


By the bed a book left unread.

A pair of glasses

An Emma Bridgewater mug with ‘Dad’ written on it

The shed door open


The confused and frightened faces of two small children

And a beautiful woman sobbing gently

The gloaming moving through the rooms

A house emptied of home


Further Works

Slint – Good Morning, Captain

‘BOY,’ by Prasanna Puwanarajah