The earth is parched and cracked, no space for a little water to run, perfectly balanced by gravity, surface tension, the spark of sunlight on the edge of a meniscus, bobbing gently by green lawns, a street in summertime, a soundsystem on an old lorry barking reggae, a stone church, empty, against the sky. I flow into the gaps provided by the cracked earth. I fill the space provided by the hollow cup, making it useful.

From the mountain top at dawn, the beautiful comb of its ridge stretching away into the west, I see the sun rise, breaking the dawn's clouds into fragmented pieces, the yellow and orange and white framing the hemisphere. Through steel shutters, open air, the moving fracture between train carriages or the cracked sashes of hospital windows I will always see this dawn, this crimson coming of the new day's blood, the day bleeding in at the edges, infecting us all over again. And likewise at dusk I shall note the day's passing, watch the light drain from the atmosphere, count the bats and birds and bottles of wine as they emerge from their day's hiding places. The light has pressed us - impressed us, like sailors on merchant vessels, into its service, harnessed us to another day's work. We have been pecked and picked at, we have blinked and grimaced, but now, in dusk's late light, we see again, our sight no longer directs us, and we hear, taste and sense too, unfold a world beneath aural caresses. Click your tongue and hear the echoes back.