they were little more than scribbles, graffiti on a wall, could’ve been Tahiti or Bali but no….. it’s Bardsey, as in the island of…… some were the kind you make when before too long you’ll be painting over, your silent snub, a chance to be a rebel for a day even though only you will ever know………
some caught the light which through its modest windows barely scratched while others hardly visible are frozen almost dazzled by a light-referred from open doors cracking just a crack, ajar….. the stairs, the landing, a room or two, but not every wall… a chosen few, or random few?…….. here and there some more expansive but despite their boldness of scale remained shy nonetheless, never shouting, never craving attention, never meant to stay the time but here they were, still are staring back with a certain entitlement that was never meant to be…….
and they stayed, squatting until such time squatters-rights made it theirs and as such they live out their days unowned, disowned, unknown….. however long their days’ll be isn’t important when you’ve long ago stepped outside time to a place between the moment before and the moment after……
without them would the house fall?…..
are they the ‘ravens in the tower’?
though who would take the chance….. tempting fate is tempting but is it that tempting?…… you’ can’t erase the past you can only refuse to look at it……….
the hands that once charmed them, these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, from the air, of them just shadows in the onlookers eye, a mote, an undisturbed glimpse lulled into false securities………. they invite you, these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, and with breathless intent keep you at a safe distance….. they weren’t intended for you and yet, here you are…..
……. that’s close enough…….
did one just move?………..
they watch you as much as you watch them, see you as much as you do them, every minute you’re there they follow you around the room just about to tap you on your shoulder…. they are present more than even you are as you’re merely passing, an incidental…… but they aren’t for you, listen to them, that’s what they’re telling you these scribbles, graffiti on a wall, their secrets stained in plaster, paint, dust and distances you can only imagine.
© robert greig 2017