A Fos­sil (a Fern) on Writh­ling­ton Batches Re-Take (Pt.II)

The London Magazine - - SEAN BORODALE -

Time not as we know it but an­other time quite skilled in los­ing things. Time pressed flat in a thou­sand di­rec­tions; in which the fern’s del­i­cate gap per­sists; a small leaf-sleeve of pa­per, a mes­sage mean­ing noth­ing; a small cough in the brit­tle still­ness of earth float­ing on rock; a mere bent bit of tri­umph stub­bornly re­sist­ing the deep weight of bil­lions of tonnes of death car­pet­ing a drowned wet bog, a drowned dead min­eral ris­ing crushed un­der the felt­ing and pres­sure of an­other for­est un­der an­other hori­zon so vast it has for­got­ten it is curved, con­nected to ev­ery sec­ond of this Earth over the swamp of rock, be­yond the dif­fi­culty of birth; a mere fern made of mat­ter; a split sec­ond of con­scious­ness;

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