Down by the river, beneath the motorway is a place where the sun burrows deep. Concrete pillars are its pen, and the banks the paper, on which the light draws ever-shifting shadows.
Every so often, I venture down there, and try to capture what’s been sketched on the walls. Its particularly interesting visiting at different times of the day, with mornings casting a bright white light across the Easton side, while sundown brings a warm, yellow glow that dies out over the western end of the river.
There’s not many places like it, especially in an age where any unkempt space is quickly pounced upon by rabid developers. Closed in by the motorway in an area still overlooked by estate agents means it continues to exist for now; an obscure and gritty canvas for graffiti artists and sunlight, alike.
“Maybe we should call the police.”
Steve shuffled down the steep incline, heart pumping while a river churned black below.
“I just want to see.”
He reached the gravel bank and looked carefully about. Up ahead, the canal swerved between graffiti covered columns, meeting with a shaft of sunlight that found its way beneath the concrete sky.
It fell just short of a figure that was slumped on the floor.
Josh said something else, but the sound didn’t penetrate. Steve’s mind was racing, in competition with his heartbeat. He took a step in the dirt.
Written for The Drabble.
Yes, there is some wildlife, in a sense.
No, but I’m sure they’d fill it up if we asked them.
Well, it’s difficult to see past the road, but I bet there’s some lovely walks around.
I know it’s in the middle of nowhere. I thought that was the idea.
Look, I think you’re over reacting.
Well, I’ve booked it now.
Don’t call me that.
So, what am I going to do; stay here on my own?