That grey-scale paperweight town still
lies heavy on my mind.
Thrust upon an ocean of gold
and cherry leaves, it stood silent
and unfinished;
an outline of houses made with
oil-black ink
waiting for the warmth of
paint.
Some will tell you
that if you head east
towards the sun-warmed hills,
the sketched out town will
stare you down;
row after row
of asymmetric triplets,
watching.
I remember looking in,
from afar.
Thinking that the people there
must echo the measured monochrome;
tiny paper beings of
ink, and soot.
Or, if they didn’t,
that it would be my task
to turn to ash.
N J Griffiths 