Today is Sunday, the 15th of July 2018.
The skyline has lost its face. Or should I say the treeline has lost its shape?
For years and years the trees on the hills in the outbacks of Bromford, the friendly town by the shore and seaside, formed the profile of a lying woman with chin and lips and nose and forehead. Some time ago I found out that the nose was only one single tree, one round and bushy deciduous tree. Now that tree is gone, no nose anymore, no face of a lying giant woman.
Like that other shrub I spotted from my parents kitchen window till I was twelve years old. And all these years that shrub looked like the number twelve. But one day when I was older the shrub looked just like a shrub and nothing like the number twelve at all.
What if the only thing that is gone is my imagination? What if I am running out of fantasy?
Nothing is permanent but the change.
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