'One cannot speak anymore of being, one must speak only of mess.' - Samuel Beckett

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

The old stone poet.

The bust of the poet Rossi sits just outside the kitchen in my garden. My Grandfather spotted him alone and waiting for a reluctant bus somewhere outside of Brightlingsea, on the East Coast one day. He decided that a journey home in his Bentley would be preferable to whatever other fate may have awaited him.

I wore the undignified and atrophied leather hat that sits upon his head when I was in my late teens, it covered my skull of ubiquitous boho length hair and a poorly rendered sense of self-esteem.