rough guide

When the rain comes, and drops hang from windowframes and spiderwebs, and damp greenness crawls under the back door on the back of a rogue snail, then.
Then it is that we consider and long for the mudbrick of desert palaces, the spiced dusts of driedup ditches, the early pitchblue evenings in bulblit streets, a slice of moon floating. We look for cool morning bus stops and for hazy late afternoons among reeds and decaying boats.
Any or none of this we may or may not achieve, but it can be slipped between the pages of a book easily enough. The binding is dry, cracking; grains of sand fall onto the tabletop.

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