Counting

 





It has stopped raining:I go back into my shed and my entry is watched, by one face fleetingly and by this other, unmoving, which looks back at me. Big moustache, big ears, not hostile, wary and counting: what is past, what is to come.

There are two versions of this but the painted one is about colour and this one is about me.

There is a black and white photograph of my scout troupe at a parade. Everyone is looking straight ahead,
stiff, like the flags. Not me. I am looking at the camera. That look, all those years ago, is the same.

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