The dam-valley

In a valley and above a dam.

Take your sleeping bag. Take it green as peppermint toothpaste to a valley in Wales.

Walk the visitor centre. Walk past soft-pimpled teenage servers, bored with gum and quickened with lust.

Sit with coffee-scorched hands on cracked plastic tables. Watch condensation weep on to your hand. Feel wicked pain in fingertips and gentle-burn lips.

Beyond this quotidian death-life, beyond and above, stands the dam. And below the dam, the cataract fresh with spume and wet and lush as a virile woman.

Powerful in her clean waters that dribble down a million thirsty throats in Birmingham.

Wait until the visitor centre bleeds away to blackness. There you are, alone in a car park at dusk and no sound. This is when you feel the sadness of the universe.

Did you know that we made civilization so there would be no silence?

Boom-boom wars and a thousand dramas so that we would not have to listen to silence.

Walk above the dam, hail a sheep dead on a look out point — eyes all plucked to hollows by the birds.

Maggots on the fresh meat.

What he is, you will become.

There is no pretence in nature.

Lie down in the bracken, a bed better than anything civilization has built.

Listen to the bird call loud hailer in the valley. Watch the sun bleed across the sky. See the stars.

Ah, see what we saw last fifty-thousand years now dead with electric burning.

There is a special place behind your throat when the stars tell you the true perspective.

Close eyes. Open at three to see the space station, a heavy lightbulb, move with silent, friction-clean urgency across your vision.

Good night, universe. Good morning, valley. One.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.