Home is a seep by the river; a spit of dampness on the hard back of stone. Pale lavender flower clinging to a spot of mud, eating sun, drinking by turns dew and rain, fog and mist. Nameless.
Emptiness cradles stone and birds soar through silence. The disc of the world is only a crescent in another sphere of light – a spit of dampness on the hard back of stone – the wind behind rattling leaves, the space that births place.