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PASSING THE BUCK TO THE BRONTES
I myself think that if river means mother as they say in dream lore then I’ll be my own
mother. For not only is there what I was saying about the so and so and so Stavisky and
let your Emperor be so advised : and symptoms and samples and figurehead overflows and
who what when why how and dip your ensign and stag party stagger in newsvendor
pastry. That’s merely an aside to my was it beach or down by the river or was it blue glint
and sun sprinkle or was it water.
At low tide the river is easier to see as to shape. Whatever earth was there and trees went
browns while brick walls or buildings went blues in their neutrals. This is an attempt to
not mention anything because that’s how it seemed along by the supposedly mother-high
river. I think about a river a mother : no. And I think in future I might be my own mother
and father nor offspring in future if ever I go by a river. I strongly advocate this to mean
that into whatever the breeze makes the meanderings of the water ruffles not so much like
daydreaming as the plot is too unstrung in formation for such a crisp day. More as I say
breeze if a breeze in this weather does shift and not freeze : it must be winter.
If that’s the case I prefer the melons of summer to the last parsley clothes of what I wear
in winter to try to keep warm. Personal blood thinosity in my winter conch shell : but still
wind-drifts and heart-aches they say have their esoteric compensations. Did not the
Brontes know the exodus of matter in an english manner. It’s up once again to you to
accept or not such a buck. One may always pass the buck as well as the torch if one does
not wish to retain it. Does one. One never knows does one. Thank goodness there are
always freshets : fresh bucks : and buckets. A page or two more of this and a pretty fine
stew pickle or cold December isn’t it. One knows sometimes doesn’t one : or does one
never know. You take the buck eddie : breeze you never know.
© Len Lye
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