- Vol. 08
- Chapter 11
See, there are traces in the clay. A snake head. A pig face.
Sad old pig, ears drooped, snout merged with the mud.
There are snakes in the sky. They look like tyre tracks. Form an upturned bridge
between nowhere and white light.
The sun is pinioned on the sky’s topmost bend. Skin puckered – still citrus bright,
but beneath the pitted crust are blooms of mould.
It all comes back to this: the soil, the sky, the sun in fragile balance,
teetering between nowhere and nowhere, surrounded by light.