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Like the entrails of cigarette smoke zigzagging across the bustling intellectual coffee shops of old Oxford, I wrap myself around the chatter drone of Costa 2010.

Easy listening vibes can be misconstrued for more heavy weight undertones as I drift seamlessly into text.

I call it “coffee smoke” and by such means configure my belonging.

I know the Canada geese to a bird.

I recognise their eyes and walks and they reciprocate.

This town is my baseline.

Placeholder.

It’s waterways my garden gate.

Familiar sites evolve in me and I connect.

Not knowing prior that man can connect with buildings, see them like friendly faces.

And mindful of nearby places.

The stacked-up townhouse jumble of Kennedy street in the city next door.

The sheen on the water in the low sun light - a magnificent marble floor.

How long before new becomes home ?

As long as it takes the falling sun to burn the western skies over Cheshire.

As long as the winter months, watching the snow settle on the Pennines, distant to the north over Bolton and Rochdale.

As long as the 5am dawn bursts open my world in the depths of summer, devouring my dreams, pure and magical as being alive.

As long as the houseboat anchors creak, rustle and splash in the canal down below - my every evening lullaby.

As long as crowds of random strangers burst out above me in the Salford skies, conflating the whitest jet trails, gone before my eyes.

Breaking open into golden dots, at once beautiful and fading.

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04/10/10

GK

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