Rush forward in time like the wind blowing along the high street, through the public cemetery, past the men’s outfitters, the florist, the butcher, Mr. Sabre in the bakery, the chapel, the fancy dress shop, like the breeze that lifts rubbish and leaves into the air in a spiral, twisting out as far as the Rio and gusting on towards a café which stands silently with its blinds drawn on a street with no other doors.
Rush forward in time like the wind that chases its tail down towards the beach in Eade Village, past The Haven and down the hill, around the lake, in and out of the trees like children playing, past the church and the Old Vicarage with its shed full of dogs, past the library and the hair salon, past the harbour and out towards the Light, where the breeze twists and turns around the giant white candle like someone with a birthday is trying to blow the candle out.