Did you know a house can take years, six years, ’til it rafter-shoots? And you have no idea the kinds of loans and hands and toolbox riflers you require. You don’t get how much help that you’ll need.
I’ve watched homes sideways slip from cliffs as dad paid for our amusement tickets and he pointed to a cliff-top toilet and said, “Legend has it, the walls fell as someone sat there,” and our firework Thursday nights on wound paths, plank strung and cordoned off where pavement cracks made running tricky, then dangerous, were teetering, on the absolute edge of something: a county disintegrating in salt water, like digestives in luke-warm tea left long enough for the milk to gather a film on top of it. I’d say a skin, but that’s loaded.
Some of the park ended at other shores, sands, heads and hands cropping at the most unexpected of co-ordinates; the sorts of beaches ex-boyfriends picked for group outings, not picnics, because alone time’s a marriage-luxury. The cowboy fort lingered, intact ten feet down, closer to the water, but I didn’t have the guts to climb or abseil, to retread old ground I thought I’d get again. It was a low taunt, impossible forgetting.
And the earth wasn’t built in a day, a week or a month and any evidence suggesting otherwise you should run from like those park stories you’re told when small when shrubs can’t conceal you from strangers intent on taking you. If a scientist says they have facts suggesting a creation manifesto I’d ask who gave Gary Barlow the highlighting job, of picking people out incredulously who have credibility, and why faith exists in a world in which no one writes their autobiographies. And if we could scale history back, simply, in a calculation page or two, why we’d expect god before mistake; man and not dinosaur.