Saturday, July 05, 2008

Three Intimations.
The hydrangea tree blooming over the old graves on the rise in the cemetery are the only flowers there. Bent and twisted by the winds and winter, there isn’t a time it wasn’t there. Afternoon wind.
There is nothing whiter than the evening lychnis at dusk. Dry summer.
So still tonight the moonlight is the loudest thing.

Anthony McCarthy: 1978