His eyes had been opened to the terrible fragile beauty of the world ...

We're driving towards Salisbury to see Tessa - 

A grey sky hangs over the prehistoric landscape - 

Sharp flints lie upon chalk - 

A few moments ago, we drove past a war memorial, lapped by brittle wreaths - 

Mud spattered Qashqais are parked outside bijou barns - 

Juke boxes are playing ballads in Sunday afternoon lounge bars - 

Pool tables wait for rogues - 

Pollarded trees are like Giacometti figures - 

This morning, Jay had texted me to ask if I'd seen the BBC 4 documentary about Wilko Johnson - 

I hadn't, but in my mind's eye I pictured the Bard of Canvey Island - 

There he was, playing his Fender Telecaster, sharp suited, witty, frantic -  

He, too, was marked by that secret mark - 

His eyes had been opened to the terrible fragile beauty of the world - 

15.30

Sunday 28 November 2015

Salisbury