A hulking figure draped in black cloth sits in the high tangle of a prairie. He extends his hand which is formed of solid gold bones and gently motions it over a wild daisy. Most of the time what touches his hand is crushed by the weight of the gold and the interminable strength he has mustered to articulate his bones. But the hairy stem bends and when his hand passes clear of the white flower it springs back into place as if his hand was never there. As if he were a ghost. This pleases him. To be so solid, so heavy, in the world, it is a relief to feel, however briefly, that he is apart from it. The breeze picks up and whistles a strange chord as it passes between the gold teeth of his fixed grin.
Paddy Dobson
14th September 2021