Pour la version française de cette publication – CLIQUEZ ICI

Whenever I return to a place I’ve not been for some time, a narrative gets triggered by an inner voice which builds gradually as I approach destination.

This inner voice doesn’t talk in a standard way because I am the only listener. Sometimes it is simply a spider-thin string spun out of the sights, sounds, smells, textures hiding unseen around me. Suddenly, there they all are. And what was merely a map comes to life.

The collection of these items takes time. Generally, it’s when my hand is already writing all this down that I notice the pen or pencil moving across the page.

Jotting things down helps the tuning-in process. The result is a list of sorts, the ingredients for the storyboard of a home-movie. Something intimate and artisanal, but not completely private, because its contents are also perceptible to others. Contents may be too big a word for it – scraps may be more appropriate. The scraps get saved, and some also get reshaped a little until they’re ready to share.

Here’s an example. This could be the start of a scrapbook.

Photo – Laura Adai – Unsplash

It’s all still here –

Places, place names,
The hum of the language,
The quality of the laughter.

Past fences, past fields,
Territories of the unreal,
And a window between.

Hunched runners huddled,
Biding time as my body rocks
To the tick of the sleepers.

Battersea cranes, blinking
Early evening warning lights,
Slowly bringing the map to life.


Twilight London Train

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