The first ever encounter gave intimate, jaunty and faintly satanic vibrations with high-pitched girlish voices coming down from the hawkish buzz. Blue eyes giving that wink, whistling through Deedle deedle deedle, like a dentist's drill. A whistle like that turned the room across the corridor like some perennial irritants. The wireless played on irately, complaining about the villainous price of drinks and abashment. A company picture hangs protuberantly with parboiled lies, avoiding the skirting of the skriting of truth. Flames burst forth with clasped hands and stringy neck soles which are much-mended for its glossy brown brogues to the tip of the conical skull. The long-lobed leathery ears stick out with dried and smoked smoky yellow tinge. The buzz of voices can be heard on the wireless virulence of recognized boundary lines.
Later that day, the black car came, or the following one, or the one following that, glossy saw the black cat again, recognised it at once as it went bounding over the little humpbacked bridge that spanned the railway line. It is still there, that bridge, just beyond the station. Yes, things endure, while the living lapse. The car was heading out of the village in the direction of the town, shall call it Ballymore, a dozen miles away. The town is Ballymore, this village in Ballyless, ridiculously, perhaps, but do not care.
No comments:
Post a Comment