Repeats nothing’s gonna change my world.
The mantra feels good although he doesn’t know what it means.
At the edge of the field there is a road and a row of houses divided into flats. The one at the end has a blue door and he imagines himself living there, alone with his books like a character in a Paul Simon song.
Perhaps a typewriter, cigarettes.
Paper cups and rain.
Returns to the carpet spirals where the yellow blinds rattle in the breeze
as the postman neighbour plays Nearer My God To Thee
on a Yamaha keyboard.
Futuristic hearses rest by the beds of hollyhocks and dahlias.
Zephyrs and long marches against the war, in monochrome.
Illustration: Claire Palmer