The day moon nearly plural, not corrigible, I come to the playing fields at 6:30 pm, early April, think I’ll walk onto them because of shadows, something inviting in their length. Let me add my own thin length to this crowd of adumbrations: dog-walkers, baby walkers, a few ballplayers, the odd runner mostly keeping to the sides even though no-one is playing on the pitches. A small girl in a red top holds her hands against the sun, a dog drops its orange ball. Everything has its shade. Birds startle, the clouds are finely brushed. A mother reassures with her voice her three children, clustering around her as if at a funeral, apart from the brightness of their clothes. I’ll just take a turn around the field, I have my phone and time on my hands, I have collected the package from Swami newsagents, my task for today. Such leaves as there are are still crepe-thin. A father has his hands in his jacket as his child stands alertly, a measured distance away. He walks to the ball. The sound of the runner: I enjoy his earnest forceful look. To be pedestrian is to simply walk without desire. I scroll down and read of the death of someone I knew, we’ve maybe exchanged a few chats, don’t think I ever met him, but I enjoyed his posts and memes. Seems he died quietly in his sleep, after watching football. The sun pushes against us. We have no mind for the intersection of space with nothing. For Death with his attendants travels the world as shadow, and devours all beings.
Giles Goodland
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