I've been thinking a lot about 1988 recently. I found this in one of my notebooks:
I was young, freshfaced with perplexity.
During the hot summer I would sit the whole night long in cotton shorts, smoking stumps down to the yellow knuckle by the wafting blind.
The bed almost filled the room.
Three am, warm. I’m wearing the summer night as a moist second skin. The moths come to the blind, along with the scent of the distant river, now hidden by the darkness and lurking low and purple between its mudcaked banks, found only by the moon and the wading cattle statuesque.
On the radio, barely audible in my dim room; ‘The Rivers Invitation.’
For a good read about an interesting man go here...
