where the river meets sea

a walk along the tyne

isn't it swell ....

Past cracking flags and the grey swell of a Thames morning.  We venture up some stairs in search.  Yet everyone has gone ... there is nothing here but breaking waves and the flap of coloured cloth.  We sit quietly at the back and watch the ghosts weave.  Is it they who have become grey, or we?

Remembering endless journeys on a swaying train.  Once I was young and scared and bold.  Stepping out upon the adventure and the grind and the smoke and the endless, endless howling of empty legal words.

Masked rooms and dancing processions.  Words dancing.  Scratching 'cash from chaos' on the back of a strange buttered swan in yet another anonymous City hotel.  Making fortune cookies from a pile of paper.

And a beautiful, grey-eyed lone wolf pads softly from one side of the screen to the other.

The world becalmed.  Past cracking flags and the grey swell of a Thames morning.