Coleverse

Waiting at the border, it becomes clear: She stands at the edge of the flat earth, The world of her dead father's country behind her, Free fall fate ahead. Surrendering herself To this unknown, she can relent a little, fill her lungs, Feel looked after by the blindness to come. She blinks and, scanning rifled men's tired eyes, Knows everything at once. Knees still lock And seize after months in the smallest nooks; Realisations pepper her now As relief gives way to pain. Forcing a smile at the guards, she curses This brink that lets her see and feel herself again. '...they know I know, they know I know...' plays over in her head And she trips slowly into warm space.

This is strange: things occur that make me feel Feelings I cannot express here or make real. Moments trickle by here, making new All that hadn't been, or wasn't true.

I await revelation but time ticks over, displacing objects without the desperation of drama. And the revelation does not come. Inexorably, indiscernibly, my mind folds in on itself, my last thought urging my body to follow suit, pack up, furl, reveal itself only to the strongest will, the keenest eye.

In sedate green rows of study tables littered with readers, writers and voyeurs he sits with his papers sorting, scattering, sorting, scribbling fancies to break the rhythm. He's a matter of concern  to those whose work does not consume them. Curiosity killed the cat their faces say but they're too keen to be taught his ways. The adept sneak tiny peeks, collate them to build a profile; others stare at awkward angles, imploring support in this new sport. We all like a mystery but in time books or decency call off the game. He rises triumphant, collects his effects and departs to a tune they can't quite place.

The tentacles of growing affection play with ring fingers, sleeves, corners of eyes. We convince ourselves the monster is our own invention, exalt the beast when friendship would suffice. Two incipient lovers lock arms in the park and seem to be waiting for a lesson to begin, but teachers don't touch this stuff; besides the feeling doesn't let the didact in. In weeks the arm of one is getting restless and the soft sign of love prickles, annoys so that a faith is getting questioned very gently. The surprise is not that the beast has wreathed them but that it bolted quite so easily to leave them with the stickiness of choice.

Somewhere near here this chilly unthinking rain patters Spring flowers painting a respectful gloss. In my grey city the same rain rhythms neurosis, breaking the web of sun and luck, battering me awake, needling me to sleep, sabotaging the geometry I've spun.

She plays tennis every week with him - wouldn't miss it for the world. She delicately drops, and serves like a lady in long skirts, never perspiring, barely a pant at the end of a generous rally. He loves her. His skill enables him to take his eye off the ball until the critical moment, luxuriating in the sight of her; by contrast, she fixes doggedly on the ball, refuses refreshment, eager for every minute, every point. It hurts him so. His weekly loyalty amazes her - after all, it's hardly a fair match; the knowledge pricks a little, yet during long sets she can pretend they're equal, with everything to play for. He knows he'll never win.