Published 'Purple Patch' 1988
At the end of time, there was a Village that never was.
My name had been Abra Raven, my tunic a cast-off from the last colonial war, and I've decided to tell it as it really was.
"I've forgotten to bring my most important paint," said the soldier who was holding out a tin of white gloss.
I could not see the cornfield because he had forgotten the yellow, too.
So, shrugging my shoulders at the incapability of my own understanding, I forged on to the village, where thousands had grouped themselves into a celebration. If flags were waved, then a thousand coloured handkerchiefs scuttered from every quarter: even the trees had leaves of a peculiarly darker green than normal, upon every out-stretched branch.
How did I really know that it was all as unreal as the back of my hand? Because I could see through to the very veins?
Maybe ... but it was really the white blood that gave the game away.