By | 1 May 2020

There was always some feast or another: the garden, as I have said, was blessed with a plentiful supply of sharp objects. Crocus spears. Spinifex. March had seen a brief overflow of the Ashley, delivering all manner of small, perfect animals. We lived for a while in the schoolroom, as caretakers. At mealtimes our meals we took beside the mantle, before the low-burning grate. On cold February nights and hot days in August: the children taking their lessons with knife and fork; perishables perishing. It had been some years since the last of the old family had passed, or fallen into desuetude, or down long flights. On Sundays, in the small churchyard, we fell to paying our respects. Punctually, at noon, there rose—. From the northeast corner of the yard, on a slight rise, one could summon a commanding view of the main residence: electric lights, hooded alcoves. Set back at a safe distance from the sleepy, vulgar little town.

This entry was posted in CHAPBOOKS and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.