From our UK edition
Whatever savants say, the world is flat, not round; the ships that crowd the bay are for its limit bound. Their cargoes likewise, all consigned to one address, at the world’s waterfall plunge into nothingness. The brightwork, the white sails unfurled against the sky, the million knots and nails for such a voyage, why?
From our UK edition
They might almost be bushes, boulders, they sit so still. Night floods the meadow at their shoulders, brims the canal, and renders rod and line invisible. Traffic on the by-pass sighs as if asleep. A mallard claps derisively and flies. Cows rip the grass. Its being chosen makes the silence deep. The rooms that penned them flicker in synaptic light; eyes gaze at screens; ears buzz with din; the mirror that enchants these fishermen is lost to sight. Upon it, jobs, debts, children, wives leave not a mark; its stillness underlies their lives and raises wordless thoughts, as shy as fish, out of the dark.