Darklight

It's come off. It happens a lot. The splintered old wicker shopping basket lies on its side.one wheel in the road. A small loaf,some carrots.Utterly Butterly. Here let me. I pick up the little wire wheel. The rubber is very worn. So is the owner. Very small and thin, an old topcoat and headscarf. A matchstick figure. Fallen off the back of a Lowry. Where's the nut? No nut.I havent got a nut. Tape, sticky tape I puts sticky tape round it.In my pocket. I bring it with me. I'm not sure... Yes yes, sticky tape,wrap it round. There. We put the provisions back in the basket. Far to go? I ask. No she says. Just to the end of the road and round the corner. Shall I..? No no lovey, thank you very much. She leaves,steering her basket around the cracks. The wicker creaks. I stand watching until she reaches the end of the road. She turns the corner. The wheel comes off.

That's mine,he mutters. What? It's mine.I dropped that. I straighten from bending to pick up the fifty pence piece lying on the kerbside. When ? Just before you arrived. I came back for it.It's my one. You don't sound sure. He doesn't.It isn't his. He certainly looks as if he would benefit from it. I leave it to him,walk away.

He doesn't pass the house as often now. It's clear he isn't well. His protracted limbs are tired,he doesn't tower like he did once. The skating of his enormous shoes much slowed,the sound hard to describe. A shuffling question mark approaching,a sagging S in retreat. He still visits the allotment. Deposits his breakfast eggshells to nourish the raspberry canes. They are all he's ever raised. He's unkempt,dirty,he always wears a shirt and tie. He lives alone,he can't look after himself,knows no-one who will. He's frightened. 'Mother' died, fifteen years since. I hesitate to ask 'How are you? He always had so much of interest to tell me,now it's only health. Or the lack of it. He's always been mildly disturbing.The kids never took to him. It's difficult not to feel guilty,a little ashamed . Thirty years,three doors down. He has never been invited in. He doesn't pass the house as often now.

Artist's trading card.3.5 x 2.5 ins

ATC's Artist's trading cards. Small studies for 'Darklight'.Each piece is 8.9 x 6.3 cms.[3.5 x 2.5 inches.] by: John Farrow

Nothing is ever perfected at your limits of vision. Everything blurs at the edges, fades into darkness, which is fathomless, immmortal. Beyond the human world

Non cola ma vola Non cade ma s'alza

I regret calling my work 'Blacklight' before coming to Tumblr.Every time I search the tag all I get is people leaping around in the dark.Oh well.

So disappointing.

One difference between artists and ordinary people is that artists have big egos. In some cases, it's the only difference.

Thank you.