There is a painting on my wall. The scene: a green and tan-toned skyline formed from robust ag-ed English trees
trees line walls
walls — seams
seams between pasture and residence
unseen beyond the trees,
and Jutting —
into a mass of (only dark enough to suggest a cooling breeze) clouds — nearly white…ivory page pronouncing from thin…blue…sky…
The Spire — of All Saints: the artist’s inspiration for this painting (I dare say), and for another fine painting of Old Cockerm’th.
That painting’s foundation is the river (wide and low) and
Now the fields that (all that time ago) stretched wide and green
are built (or being built) upon.
We look down Kirkgate to the spire for the second time this hump day afternoon.
The van’s engine misfires, or the plugs…fail…to start…to glow. I don’t know.
The red clamp clicks onto its vinegary terminal. The black’n sparks off of a ruddy bolt, and the jump-starter clicks-in heart-shrinkingly, un-affectingly ineffective…ly.
She is a Thursday’s child, lending her time (and her borrowed booster pack) to me. She always has a place to be.
I concede (after repeated re-calibrations) to one…final…try… and I look again, up at that spire, imagining Doctor Frankenstein’s fate-delivering bolt (some power that had), but no such power (for me or mine), until I’m quite alone, unrushed, and
leafing the meager paperwork, I find no further clue to the age or frailty of my bled battery. I scrubbed up most it’s chalky seepage, before,
before the final try, and before mustering grace to say good– bye without betraying (needless) woe.
What is IS, so come on, and tidy round (the papers, paper cups, and greasy rags). Oh just… one…last…go… and (GO) it did.
I drove (recharging) around Bass Lake. I’ve known (this) for some time, I must refrain from asking “…why?”
I hark back to our first meeting (where?)…way back there…(when?)…way back…then.
He prompts (teasingly) “Who?”