Christopher McEwen

A Small Man

A Small Man

Age, immaterial. His clothes, height, features indifferent to interest or lack of it. Walking the ochre air of evening. Perhaps autumn of the year, easing into his bones. Scent of unknown body floating up from his clothes. Fading. Acrid

He perambulates the obsolete city, exploring without discovery gothic avenues. Sodium lights slide acid dapples to float on the mists river. A gloom of shops fade to internal dark. Dying torches glimmer of bristles of boar, of deer, their severed limbs. Black blood in the mossy cracks of pavements. Slabs.

A city painted with damp. Limbs wrapped in cloth, tied, stitched. Acrid. Fading. His feet scrape the stones, flapping in a dull approach to winter.