landed in Luton after a jet lagged day in Amsterdam checkin the scene, railways and boats in canals. Rolled up to Malvern slipping in and out of consciousness and converstaions.. The healing water town. Off to the west is Wales, the sun sets sail painted pink her fingernails scratch trails in the fading light. English garden rehearsals where the stream chuckles and gurgles. Doves and thier low down morse code calls. A gig at the club with a druid and his band of minstrels.. A roman fort like a Maori pa site sits serene south.
We wroll north to the east and to York. Huddersfield welcomes. To York to a show. 800 year old tapestries backdrops and ghosts so we’re told. A spot of cricket so English and fine. Knocked for a six not unlike pick up sticks old war wounds aworry we set sail south.
Dover to Dunkirk, Dunkirk to Den Bosch where the gathered enjoyed, ‘specially the 2 year old mosh pit queen. The road educates it enlightens, elates. It gives and it takes with its elucidations. Beers at the bar, history, politics, ethics and reason.
12 hours in a car in dear Poland we are.. A stroll by the lakeside, dusk spiders pitch camp quiet in the trees while little fish make ripples reflecting and fleeting. Whiskey and icecream, streamingly conscious. Words on a page speak of life and its stages.