The lone guy sitting on the church steps revealed a sad smile in anticipation of me taking his picture. I felt an apprehension at the intrusion and at the last minute angled the camera upwards.
We are playing hide and seek. From my secret hideaway, I can barely see you walking way over there. Oh, the thrill of the seeker heading off in the wrong direction.
With white on red, a statement is made. I am only too relieved that the shop is closed. Prickly pears and stories of thorns tweezed out of milk white foot soles scare me. Thank goodness they don’t pretend to be everyday fruit, those rebellious renegades. Let them remain here, where they can still get their name in white on red.
Too many foreign fight films have lead me to believe that I can traverse from branch for branch with merely a firm flying jump to each.
Your hand goes round and round in a circle as you press the chalk down firmly on the wooden table. Surprisingly it does not snap in two. You are concentrating. I am mesmerised.
Imagine drawing aside the dusty curtain that probably has not been moved in years (be careful of the spider) and just letting the light stream in.
Inside, there are four apples and six carrots to be exact. The paper bag crunches as I fold it carefully.
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