Orpheus

1. An ache curves through my side and back. My mouth and eyes are gummy. I notice my hot breath, the dark, and no memories of dreams just consciousness floating up like a free diver from the dark.

I peel off my eye-mask. The weak afternoon light is fighting its way through our thin blinds. I listen to my body adjusting itself to the first few moments of being awake.

2. My nearly white dog tumbles across the muddy park for the half rotting stick I have thrown for her. She races away into the shadows of evening and into the mist and trots back, brighter and easier to see with each step.

Even in this half-light the autumn leaves of sycamore and beech stand out. They are the hot colours of clay pots glazed with antimony, cadmium and selenium.

3. Out here there are no electric lights. I stretch out my hand in front of me and it disappears. The clouds have taken away the moonlight. There is nothing but the sounds of the wind moving a few leaves, of a car on a distant road and of a few drops of water from a broken gutter.

 4. I once sat with a woman who was dying. She asked me where she would go after death.

5. The world tips back towards dawn.