5pm. The stools around the bar were sparsely populated by locals sipping frosted beers. This was a wordless world. Seated in unacknowledged communion, the inhabitants shared an ambient soundtrack: the animation of the keys of the in-use fruit machine, the repetitive squeak of glasses being polished, the crunch of half-stale peanuts, the drag and drain of glasses. No eyes met. That was until the door to the pub burst open. In clambered a motley crew, led by a clown costume, then a lion, a witch, and even a wardrobe; they heckled and called and roared with laughter. The locals looked up, alarmed, the bartender tensed. Heaving down into a corner booth, the arrivals only had focus for each other. The sacrament had been ruptured.
The sun was reaching its peak when the crowd began to gather. Emblazoned in gold, it billowed and surged before their shielded eyes. They stood transfixed as the surface erupted and swelled before them. These were hopeful bystanders awaiting the thrill of a solar event. But this was no ordinary flare. One faction knew. They kneeled in the grass holding hands. Dark glasses in place. Calm. The others had begun to notice the menace of what was brewing. A murmur began to spread, a ripple of voices. Behind hands, into ears. The sun was now embroidered with dark recesses, visible to the naked eye, and its solar corona continued to expand. People pointed now, jaws opened in wordless awe. The enlightened group began to sing. Their voices were carried by the gathering swelter of air. The song was a rejoice. A welcoming. An exultation. Anxious eyes now flicked between the events of the sky and the source of the noise below. The crowd became agitated, disturbed by this aberration before them, alarmed by the oppression of heat now pressing down upon them. The very air now shimmered with growing ferocity, natural blues turned red. One member of the chorus rose to their feet, hands raised towards the sky in an embrace, face lifted in triumph. Buoyed by sheer euphoria. “What is happening?” The voice reached the sanguine silhouette, who turned and smiled. “It’s just the melting of the sun.” <i>I want to watch you watch it burn</i>. “We always knew this day would come.”
It’s just the melting of the sun
Cracked pots scatter the recesses, a tap drips incessantly the damp of this microclimate acclimatised to the cult of crop Hands in earth heave handle, uproot tendrils a lifetime of darkness undone this clamour of foliage soak in the fracture of light distilled from single panes and in their shadows saplings sough amongst all this you suffer embittered, resentful, embroiled caught in the stifling stick of sap, dank dew of cloistered clamminess, a diligent worker
The ripping of roots