Strikings

Sunlight zig-zagging up a low tiered garden wall. Getting cooler. I am wearing a black jumper. Listening to John Fahey’s “The Legend of Blind Joe Death”. The volume fades down in the middle of a track for no particular reason, lifts to become loud and then fades out again. Very little seems to have changed on my table. The table itself, of course, rarely changes. Only the material on top of it. Only the orientation of the chairs. Only the quality of the surrounding day or night. Only the person who types these words. I can hear the garbage truck out on the road. Six small black plastic pots arranged in a row in a clear spot in my rear garden. My neighbour has gone away for three weeks, leaving me to care for the strikings. I wonder what chance they have of growing. All I can do is water them regularly. The rest will depend upon the efficacy of the miracle formula he has applied to their buried stems. My favourite track is “Sligo River Blues”.