Markers

Only the yellow markers remain, two slanted lines running parallel at each consecutive right angle of where the tent was once pitched from one end to the other of the vast playing field. There is a scattering of hay here and there and some paper bags, uncollected. The event has come and gone. Alongside that field, in what would have been beyond the margins of the tent, there is the dog run which has barely got going yet. It is now established as a weekly event. People are beginning to gather. Dogs run and are called sharply by their owners as they scatter here and there over the surface of the ground once lost to the tent. One jumps and grounds another in mid-flight.

A man lays out a lime green kite on the ground in the field adjacent. It is one and a half times his size in every direction. I look away. When I look back it has gone and so has the man. Up in the sky something flutters, it's feathery multicoloured tail blowing in counter-direction to it. The man is way off at the other end of the field, a small figure in opaque metal blue running into the distance and becoming less and less distinct, tethering a line over his shoulder I think. There is no wind and the kite begins to falter and wind it's way back down. The rope goes slack. The man stops, turns and waits. Then he starts walking the long distance back through the field towards me. It takes forever. Later as I too make my way through the field in the opposite direction I see the remnants of the dyed individual feathers; red, yellow and blue lodged here and there between the tufts of prickly grass that I am picking my way through. The sound of helicopters overhead is unceasing and makes me bend more than I need to. It is what finally got me to move. Trains continue to cross one another at the far side of the field blending with each other before seperating out again.