David Miller

Waking to a bright, warm morning in the port, with men washing down cars and motorbikes across the street. A mail-boat on a stamp; an envelope addressed to someone in the neighbourhood of the spirit. Despite a heavy cold, I went out in the rain to meet him when he phoned to say that he was lost. —My doctor advised me to take long walks, I told him, with old friends from far away. Birds singing loudly as I made my way to bed. From my friend’s flat, I walked past a church and drop-in centre, charity shops and outdoor stalls. The balcony door swings back and forth in the wind. It was only when the service was over, and she was standing with her back to me, that I was able to speak to her; she turned to face me, and wasn’t the friend—loved and lost for years—I thought I’d recognised. False apprehensions: a form of constancy. I was staying in a caravan, beside a shack with most of the rooms derelict, wild kittens for company. During her parties she would play recordings of Gregorian chant. When we met for the last time, you told me you’d been working on a series depicting nearby buildings, abandoned or set for demolition.