Nightcrawler     In those damp summer evenings, he would drive down the dirt roads, the radio playing a queer melody, suitable for slow nights alone with a bottle of pilfered brandy.   It was as if his life were a movie- a plain story of living, just a hair of a life, but with the heavy weight of an old man, who had dined, dozed and wept in many barren rooms.   His mind simply clouded over, like a milky vase, the world was seen from a dog's eye view, a greyish pictorial assemblage of blurred creatures, reaching with mighty hands, to fix his being, shut his voice.   When the brandy had finished, he'd stop the car and walk between the dry brush and nettle, resting his back against widowed oaks, listening to the wild beasts crawl into burrows, equal in his solitude.   His shame was to wake alone, to find the peculiar self, all dry bone and sallow heart, beginning the slow drive home.

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This work is copyrighted by Shelagh Power Chopra.

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