• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 09

Prayer for the world

It’s the shapes that entice, spliced into curved shards of soft greens, gritty browns and plashy blues. Like a sloth her lazy eye works round the image, undecided on the most interesting part to settle on and explore, or pray for. Shapes move with the contour of her eye, blur at the edges making crevices of snow weep into dun, dull rocks. She could almost feel the rough edges on the bend of her knees as she imagined kneeling to meditate. The moon/not moon is flat bottomed, curious but familiar in a rock album kind of way. Floating amidst, God-like the wide-nostrilled beast looks bored, tired of witnessing the world’s demise. She moves her eye, intertwining with the bending trees, sliding away and towards. Boughs catch impossible light and the deepest of shadows, tossing them about, moulding them in the fingers of leaves and tucking the doughy splodge in between the twigs and roots. White horns and boughs brush up against each other, tussle for her attention, her prayers and she looks up, skyward, trying to decide if there is a man on the moon or not.