The only person to depart the only train. A business man had got off at the previous town the journey scathed with his post-work-pint fidgeting and walrus yawns.
Dinner was replaced with a chapter on Jack Kerouac with a platter of Wyndham Lewis on the dessert tray, stranded half way from London to the waiting ‘stix’. Frustrated over Tarr’s tardiness to get anything done, giggling at Kreisler on his knees, the page is culled of it’s perfect corner as a robotic female bellows of approaches , lugguage and terminations. End of the line. No one else steps out along the glisten of salt to help mind the gap.
The fog and silent streets are almost boastful under orange lights thinking itself no longer a village but a crewless movie set for Jekyll and Hyde. Up the hill of wooden built, monochrome cottages and lisping spring trees my breath is like a steady gale. Even the few cars that drive by seem indistinguishable hulks like a H G Wells invention to patrol the night.
Diffused light and haggard, faint, music leak from the pub on the corner. An old man’s cough the only proclamation of human life in the creamy-haze of fog.
From the graveyard comes birdsong in black trees scribbled across a violet sky. Their alarm at the hard leather clap of brogues on the pavement sings at the echoes.
Four hundred years the weatherboard house has waited for those returning. Even in this century, this modern, digital age bolts are slid to hold out the night and the flames of a log fire still leap up in welcome like faithful pups at their owners return.