Walking through a really interesting museum with my little boy, we pass a man in a wheelchair, very elderly, frail, skin taut, being pushed around the exhibits by his carer. An old bus, perfect condition, double-decker, seems to grab all of our attentions at the same time; from different points on a compass, we converge there. And here we are, for these few moments, poised, balancing on something we cannot see. So close to death he is, no next chapter for him; it is all he can do to stay with us, in our makeshift gang of four, looking at the immaculate, garage-green paintwork on this beauty.
I am the day.
There is something to be said, I think
At the heart of things, there is a great, swelling sadness
A sadness beyond the realm of common feeling
A sadness with no tale, no push or pull
A sadness that is not particularly known here
But has its home in all places
Don’t think of pity nor remedy
You draw closer now
Refine this sense