London Fields

Dawn is coming. Today, I think, the sun will start to climb a little higher in the sky. after its incensed stare at the planet. Its fiery stare, which asked a fiery question. The clouds have their old colour back, their old English colour: the colour of a soft-boiled egg, shelled by city fingers.

 Of course you were far too young to remember. But who says? If love travels at the speed of light then it could have other powers just on the edge of the possible. And things create impressions on babies. It really is the case. Everything created impressions on you. The exact crenellations of a carpet on your thigh; the afterglow of my fingerprints on your shoulders; the faithful representation of the grip of your clothes. a bit of sock elastic could turn sections of your calves into Roman pillars. Not to mention hurts, like the bevel of some piece of furniture, clearly gauged on your responsive brow.

In a way, too, you were a terrible little creature. If we were out together, on a blanket in the park - whenever you caught my eye you would give a brief quack of impending distress, just to keep me on alert. You were a terrible little creature. But we are all terrible little creatures, I'm afraid. We are all terrible little creatures. No more of that. Or of this.

So if you ever felt something behind you, when you weren't even one, like welcome heat, like a bulb, like a sun, trying to shine right across the universe - it was me. Always me. It was me. It was me.