The moldy crumbs from ramshackle tin houses, tiptoed on the moor, like little peas battered, rolling across the floor. A figment of the miniscule, its shadow balanced on breaking point, splattered in enormity across remnants of grass. Its hind whipped by hurricane. The women know of mashed potatoes, of kittens’ skulls in the gravy.
And the villagers, forlorn shapes without limbs, do not blink though rain and soggy leakages scrape at their visage. There are dollies and toy trains beneath the shattered crumbs. The children fumble with their wondering, wondering about their toys.
Boys that have become men screw together the rubric cube, their backs splitting down the seam. They wear make-up now. They wear costumes and masks now.
In the embrace of the women there are whispers. Catlike whispers kindling the sadness that melted, like a sheet of crystal, like a bed in the funeral snow. Rhymes of cows and sheep and little ducks going to town, rhythm reorders the seizure of days.
Days that pixelate and flash with only static frequency, waiting for the middle-time to pass.
The children sit in the square of twigs, knowledge torrenting down upon them and every whisper shall cut them, with the claw of a rabbit’s foot.