By | 1 May 2020
Night after night the list of small entries grows. Once it starts it never stops. The land we tally was once a sea bed; we count the clouds reflected in the absolute flat sea, an arc of grey-green water, the number of times oars dip as ships seek shelter for the night, we count how many strong faces, the dark arms of the rowers. We count the silvered tangled mass of seaweed. We count those able to feel pain and joy. We count the ruins of summer palaces near beaches, walk to the small broken knob at the top of the hill, count the horde of stones beneath our feet. Olive trees, two creeks – all accounted for. Count the twists and turns, the limestone blocks through the dog-leg pass, the cobblestones on the Skiaian Gate, the graves cut into the face of a cliff. Along the canal we count paddling ducks, we count fields filled with the clack of bird scarers. We count brown leaves peeled off a stone. Looking past the benign surface, to be plain and simple, we drink from an invisible cup and stumble, taken-back promises are tried, tasted, counted and spat back out. There’s a crowd at the village notice board, a note ripped at the edges, going brown in the sun, ‘Count what you love.’

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