HE IS CAVENDISH
His cart's on fire, but he doesn't know it.
I'm watching him from afar as he crosses this
line of hills with a cartload of new hay. It's a
wonderful sight - something like a foreign film.
It should be caught on camera for the ages.
Traditional man, on his way to perdition.
Something like that anyway, like a Bergman
film, chess-guys on the beach, playing black
and white with the Devil himself. Death on the
high-wire. This is like that, but different too -
it has the blaze of all eternal truth, the fire of
righteousness foe some poor sucker unaware.
The slow walk of Time, backwards, with its
massive walking stick, along this ridge of
country-hills; this farmer, someone's old,
lousy peasant, about to be
consumed by fire.
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