A video piece created by seasores_njw –
The New éñgłįšh The lower deck empties and I furrow my pocket for keys, knowing the end of my journey nears. I turn my collar up against the night air and I join the crowd on the pavement passing the flower stall as I often do, where a Syrian woman has sold white lilies, all through the English December. She works in twilight, woolen scarf and puffer-jacket, far from her ancestors’ altars and the windowsill on which she leaned as child sight skipped roof and minaret, out, onto the distant sun skinned hills. She is of the new éñgłįšh, enduring a cold white win, zero-hour contracts, 24/7, four on four off, she’s paid in a short-term stay, with a possible permanent opening. She is off the new éñgłįšh, and stands despite the chill at the marquee, where cut flowers close against an eastern wind, waiting patiently for her own key into the dormant orchard, where once the first fruit fell, to take a bite of this small curve at the end of the world. And in my part, she is already the best of us, a hope for tomorrow that this land may yield riches again. for she knows better than I, whatever flowers in a desert, only ever flowers briefly. By N J Wood 2019
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