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I wrote this as an exercise to help me focus, like I used to back in my observing days. I realised as I was doing it, watching the people walk by, that no one else saw what I saw because no one else was looking.


My view is partly hindered by curtains. Small, perfectly square windows, framing the rugged borderland, all browned from weeks of snow and semi-permafrost.

Looking at it, even from this distance, creates a slippy illusion of clay-like mud under foot that makes me giddy. Some of the slopes near vertical, you cannot stand upright, unaided, on any.

The browned evergreens and bare branches of forests to the left and right don’t seem like forests at all right now. The forest floor is exposed to wintry UV; I see the secret paths of animals revealed.

The cindered mill that made the valley our home lies dead at the feet of the superior slopes and authoritative trees, helplessly tainting the river with its long since ransacked chemicals. Any roof not burned is covered in a layer of moss so thick that you could sleep on it – but I wouldn’t.

Dirty, asbestos-lined roofs being assimilated by the valley. Evil, toxic chemicals being neutralised by their time in the valley.

Prim-and-proper cottages overlooking the scene. Heavy, heady clouds hanging over the scene; oblivious birds; supercilious people.

Unostentatiously glorious place.


~ by singdonkeysing on April 7, 2011.

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