up-lifting as a lapwing cloud’s inside-outwardness, fugitive from harder weather, from winter in the ground that keeps us dormant, towards light that wakes us, leaking from the curtain, earlier and earlier, a sign to follow like a star to a miracle – crocus at the door, green washed through everything, that will hold its ground and grow, and somewhere birds already nesting without letting on anything is happening (god’s honour) betrayed only by a song. Opening-Time

What is it to open time? The bolt drawn, the door unlocked and the barman poised to pour your poison of choice into the bottomless glass of the mirror behind him and the mirrors in the mirror where you see yourself receding, farther and farther through the course of the evening until at last time closes.

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