Moon-nights turn wayward dawns into dusk.

The grass settles as we wind our way down the valley;
foxgloves tilt--
the night is clear as any,
and we find ourselves gazing skyward
hoping to catch a glimpse
of the shadows we left behind--
there aren't any.

Long ago we made a promise--
a promise carried through by particles of dust that cling to us
like silver lining on a cloud.
They belonged to others before us,
from times before any of this existed.

The mountains grow as we follow the path blindly,
ever deeper into the darkness.
Where the moon once lit our way,
we only see its shadows,
cast on the craggy skyline that moves farther and farther out of reach.

We aren't looking back.
When we decided to leave so many years ago, now,
we promised we would never return--
would never turn around, even,
and wave goodbye.

There wasn't anybody left to wave to--
anyways.

Every now and then, you glance in my direction--
I don't look at you.
I sit still, stoned on silence.
There isn't anything to say,
as the night grows blacker than black and the mountains no longer stand out from the sky.

The old home we left behind,
where magic hid under the bedpost and night terrors turned tricks on the heather--
it lost love when the fires raged.
We lost too, but we never stopped to ask if the love that was wasted could grow again on its own.

We left as the smoke reached the horizon--
we left while the bed posts blazed and the hills grew more effervescent in the fire-lit glow.

We left, one day,
and vowed as one does--
never to return.
And vowed as one does--
never to look behind us.

Today is different. Somehow. What happened. What changed. Did the rain fall differently this morning than it has on any other. Or not. Did the sun find a mirror in the apartment across the way--that never seems to catch the sun. Did a cloud cover the ground, instead of the sky it usually grazes. Did a child wake up with no sound in his throat. Was the moon still in sight for us to see. What pinched my consciousness and rustled a dream. What dredged up things that have lain dormant for so many years. What didn't let them lie, anymore. What silver of light caught my eye this early morning and pulled me back to this.

There's a lovely little thing with a Glaswegian accent and a stare that's lost on the world around her--she's blind. But that doesn't stop her from smiling out the window at the land that whizzes by, and curling in gently to the man beside her who holds her as one might hold a paper lily before placing it on the breeze.
They're going South--not South as in England, South as in Morocco. They told me over dinner last night. Right now we're somewhere in the Basque region--oh yes this train likes to dilly-dally it's way across the continent, there's no sense, you see, in going anywhere in a hurry. You'll undoubtedly be too late for what ever just happened and far too early for what ever is to come.
They made the decision two weeks ago to leave this old country and head for a land where what you see is so little of what you experience...not to say that Northern Africa can't offer spectacular sights, but the sounds and the smells are so rich and inviting...the things you see are less relevant. And when one is blind it becomes ever so important to entertain the other senses.
She hasn't always been blind, you know...
Oh the conversations we have are marvelous, we speak of rich dreams and evocative nightmares. The little girl tells me what she sees, because it isn't black, you know, when you close your eyes. She makes her own worlds now and gives a new name to each shape she remembers. The man listens quietly and keeps her close to him. He says a word from time to time, but he lets her do most of the talking, and to be honest it's her that I most want to listen to. Somewhere between Basque and Barcelona we stop to stretch our legs and she smells the desert of the Spanish plateau. She doesn't know whether to laugh or weep; the vastness of the desert is terrifying, it smells like death, but it is so open it pulls you in and you almost forget you can't survive on your own.
We avoid big cities because they are only a conundrum of noise and confusing screeches that would upset a little blind girl. We detour in small towns and dine with the locals while they tell us tales of visitors and creatures we thought only existed in somebody else's imagination.
The little girl never tells me her secret, but I know she's got something to say. The man knows too, but he isn't ever going to let on. I want to keep travelling with them but my stop is coming soon and I have to get off.
This train is only for people who don't know where they are going, it only stops once to let you off and you don't ever get to choose where. There aren't any rules, and I doubt very much that there is a driver, but nonetheless it can only be found by those who most need it and isn't ever there if you look.
This train doesn't need tracks, this train finds its way all on its own.

I'm building walls.

Every day we'll put them up--
tighter and tighter, and closer
until I can't--fucking--breathe.

You can never know me--
no one can.

And every time I make you recoil--every time I push you away,
a little more--
is every time I prove again
that we were all right about you--
people.

And it's the perverse nature of a losing battle--
that every time I see a small victory--
I stand to lose everything.

<<It's like watching myself from outside a bubble--watching every word lash out and scour you, just a little. I know it hurts. And at the same time, I can't do anything to stop it. I want you to fuck off. I want you to prove me right. I know it's never, if, anymore. It's only ever, when.>>