Long ago & far away in a room of glass

Long Ago and far away in a room of glass.

I remembered this as I watched the workmen fitting in a fibre glass mountain. Cutting the parts to intricate fit. I am intrigued beyond measure at these and the fey pine tree telephones that glow.

The old fuel pump down the road from where I sit today, thinking these things, is covered in spiders. Attracted by the colour? Or the excretions?

You were the first and the last and the same one in the cities and fields and up the mountains. Cities do tire more than several thousand feet into the crags. I wanted to show you so much. Walking slowly where I said and wrote, as a heron, a red heron, she walked past the city dead cenotaph, refusing politely. A minute in the life of the world is going by, said Cezanne, paint it as it is. Just yesterday morning Cezanne they let me know you were gone.

Giants stalked the land then in my wishes and the dark was like treacle. Loneliness that later I came to accept or even betimes, seek; was a small room with orange walls and a green wicker cabinet. Looking out across a clay pit and into a 15th Century farmhouse with a moat, horse hair plaster walls and a chill civil war ghost cavalryman. I found his pistols in a priest hole. I heard his spurs on the stairs.

We found a maze carved into a rock face in the south and you read that the same one had been found in ancient Mesopotamia by a Victorian archaeologist. We read Scheherazade and Schopenhauer and synchronicity was because of that.

You came to brief grief visit and you left my album of Celtic harp music on the doorstep and left without speaking. It was 28 years before I saw you again. You criticised constantly. I was diagnosed as suffering from your criticism.

Now you are thousands and seven criticisms away and I don't know what to say. Apologies are for the initiated and the landscape of sorry is Bosch bedevilled and sealed hermetic written.

Once long ago and far away in the north, we watched people escaping a fire in Woolworths. We knew that some had died and we held hands closely because you were married. You had auburn hair and you became a model and I a teacher. And then you were a teacher and I made films. Then I sold trees and you looked after a gallery. Where we met and you asked for failure.

This is about, you and the myriad you, finger pointing and shaking, not me. Only my reaction When we met and fought and eventually fell. Long ago and far away, yesterday and here. We have platonic covers over however old our souls are.

Leave me messages in spaces and say good morning with after image traces. Leave me notes and occasional kisses. Say goodnight longingly as we go to our separate beds in our wondered wandered rooms of glass.