The wood carvers ...

 

Every summer, I see the travellers - they arrive at dusk in their vans, parking upon the grass verges, perhaps hobbling two or three shaggy horses nearby - log fires smoulder late into the night - tall women gather around the embers - 

Driving past, in my newly ironed linen trousers, I imagine that I had lived a different life - 

I picture myself with a white tangled mane, reading nothing, barefoot, casting fortunes in the moonlight, governed only by the stars - 

There's now a small tribe of wood carvers settled by the roundabout to Corfe Castle -  

Bravos with long oily dreadlocks matted  with sawdust carve boxing hares, staring owls, magic mushrooms and bears - 

Yesterday, I strolled through the camp - chainsaws ripped through pale wood - sinewy brown fingers clasped bright chisels - 

Anne was on her way to London, sipping  a cappuccino from the seat service buffet - she would meet up with Sophie - later they would go flat hunting in Forest Gate - 

Perhaps, I thought, I should take off my shoes - I should tear my smart shirts to pieces -

I could already taste the cider on my tongue, feel the warmth of the night's embers against my skin - 

2.00

June 28 2014

The Wood Carvers' Camp

Wareham