Grist to the Mill

31 December, 2006


A helicopter buzzes past the slightly opened window. An angered wasp. The engine drifts away but never disappears - it beats its metal wings and hums. Tarmaced stip of prey; cracks in the brickwork like crows feet in a face. Winter night. Clouds roll the moon along outstretched arms and across the back of a headless neck. Dance to the tune of blades, sirens and rain.

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