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Graham Lindsayonline works |
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Shade Thrust of the jet as it leaps at the runway like a dragster in a standing quarter. You give yourself up, afraid the tail might scrape the tarmac. o The sea's rivers striae in its crumpled wax-like skin. A coast Edward Shortland took weeks to walk we fly in minutes safety-belts fastened all the way. Below on the fish-eyed globe the fourth leg of the Whitbread an army tent over a hole in a beach. o Angels susurrate backup vocals in the muzak muffled by pressure of descent. Out the porthole behind the juddering wing, the beautiful lonely East Coast expatriate sea. o At ground level we're prescribed alternative routes of the A to B variety across the Quatenary seabed, formerly red land pterodactyls scanned. And we're home, or at least where home was. The sea is blithe neither visionary nor even clear but holiday, forgetful, flaccid. Feet feel sand dragged back as ocean inhales, leaving us stranded on tiny mesas.
© Graham Lindsay |
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