Jonathan Wood

The Delicate Shoreline Beckons Us Jonathan Wood

I am here and I have hours to wait before I may take possession of this holiday flat for a simple fortnight's pleasure. The journey behind me collapses into the hinterland of my mind, rolled up as the past takes possession, penning it into its cavity and alcove. The capital seems a long way off. I think of the oval frosted glass and the sound of my neighbour's radio and the silence of the dawn and the work that has to be done in the unfolding unpredictability of the setting. I need to think carefully and to compose myself and imagine that the holidays are here and that everything is alright.
But everything is not alright.