To the flaneurs of the world.

Baudelaire coined the word flaneur to describe the detached strollers in Paris streets who simply observe the world as it passes them by. I am uncomfortable in cities, but find just as much to ponder on in the countryside as in any crowded city street.

This seat is in a wood. The forest behind is a broad leafed mixture of beech and hornbeam, but right in front of the seat is a closely planted stand of young conifers. The seat is sturdy, concrete ended and relatively modern. It must have given a fine view once of the abutting meadow, but now it is quite blockaded and cut off.

Was the close planting an act of neighbourly spite? Was it to obliterate the painful memory of a loved family member, who once admired the view? Did the tree planters simply never notice the bench at all? Has the bench miraculously placed itself in this inaccessible place?

I walk on into a meadow flooded with light and the bench watches me and holds its lichen covered tongue.

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Taking it slow.

The media tells us to exercise, meditate, bake, clean, detox, declutter, buy stuff, make a noise, tree bathe, twerk, be our best selves, post it, like it, share it.
This Roman snail says its raining, I shall move inaudibly from under this stone.
That’s it.