I am from the undulous land where Romans reined their horses alongside those who'd settled here before along the burn, where the river ran its source of life along the vale, now sequestered under concrete and the clogged arteries of their consumptive combustion engines.
I am from the yearning of the Sunday afternoon hogweed who stretches toward the Sun beneath the scything motorway where Apollo was once placated by those whose empire was built in blood.
I am from the sanctuary of saints seeking refuge from the plunderers of the foreboding sea, resting inland, counting out the centuries in ermine on rosaries of Grace until the hunger of conquerors bade them move once more.
I am from a stinky half-on of a town, stubbed out by the vagaries of a capital that drains its provinces like a stabbed sack of wine as they catch the flowing crims
on with their gaping maws.
I am from the heart on the spine of the nation running from capital to capital, the North Road of England, peopled by ghosts in the still of the dawning light, condemned to shimmering pilgrimage on the timeless highway.
I am from a collection of charity shops and bookies thrown together like broken clothes pegs in the bottom of a bag.
I am from the perma-grey dampness that clings to all it purveys, bonding all hunched together outside in the Wet through their common inclement heritage.
Tuesday 21st October 2014
Willy Nillie creative writing session
