The loss of an ill fated romantic in a life mechanical.

“Come to me, when hard work breathing seems finished. When the curve of this one's hip mirrors the moraine of my mountain. When bored like this is not like living for all the words that are used in incessant wondering. When not is not forever but only not yet. When and whilst the valley and peak are wet with grey rain. When water falls from sudden black haunted crag and slides, crashing, its way to lowland fantasy. When the leaves of that tree, that colour feeling are once more like it was then. Just when the geese calling in the high star night might return. That is romantically when all is lost. When unashamed youth wonders at this loss and foolishness cannot take any more for any more. Then come crying and lying on your self moss down again for me”. This said sad Alexion when I left her for her and more again, her.. Falling wistful slighted for someone in a stupid real act one of the play that didn't know me, or her for that matter. When it all became as slight, mad and dangerous as slipped slices on drunk ice.

She knew, any way and always. When I met the other and then the others further. The female voice singing sirens. Untold halcyon days beckoned slyly like favourite music. When they presented themselves until the one always difficult married the technical mechanical idiot for twenty long years away. And the mountain faded into mist and the lost degenerate youth found his joy in all the wild lusty high and secret sea places where he had once left her. “Come to me”, she said no longer in songs that could be heard.

Finding her once the old made the technically reasonable and the art failed travelling abroad. When the positive became the mechanical idiot hated and fully accomplished nothing forward. Failing to find her when it was living to work instead of all the other ways around. When footsteps of sometime before became a wish to get away for a weekend and brief times became contemplation of less than infinity remembered.

The art made searching for these and abusing more of what used to be. The words became suggestions of what could not be remembered and the playing became lonely walks into these same but different mountains.

Her times and history had long gone. Her voices in the high places were lost in the winds and flurries of storms. Logical paths that must be followed led only to low summits and petty views across gently curved bays that were always slightly waved and dull brown.

Look now for the secret high spume and the spindrift of purest snow. Look for the light catching on the sheer grey crag seen from the corner of a precious precocious eye that was no longer there. When she wanted it all and said “Come to Me” in pleasant but now lost hubris.