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This Summer by John Scott

This summer, I saw a seventy year old man, climb an eleven foot high, barbed wire fence.
I saw him drop down the other side amongst pipework, minimum wage swearwords and the half-arsed barks of a guard dog, called Nigel.
This summer I carried a collapsible ladder wrapped in thick blue carpet down a gully of nettles, briars and low hanging branches.
This summer I stifled in a safe house with closed windows and net curtains; half-slept, sweated on top of an unmade bed, woke up ready, 5am.
This summer I became reunited with the best version of myself.
This summer I sat in the lead car, weaving through empty streets to our rendez-vous with holy windows wound right down and the music of presence roaring quietly in my ears.
This summer I imagined myself a tree with roots reaching downwards.
This summer, twelve other human beings and I formed a perfect moving creature, waving and cheering when our orange banner unfurled at the top of the installation. Job done.
This summer I was watched by the insect eyes of a drone.
This summer I was stopped and searched by the police and told to get a bath by Essex white van man.
This summer we appeared in a photo on page five of The Times.
This summer the lion lay down with the lamb.
This summer I passionately embraced those who possessed this incredible magnificent light.
This summer I was followed by an unmarked Police car.
This summer I lost interest in many things. But it was the things that seemed to move away from me.
This summer I seemed to be led.
This summer the thunderstorms were louder and clearer than before. The yellow light mixed with the dust. The grass was burnt. Railway stations were watched. The coffee machines had no slot for money and no-one was minding the till.
This summer my eighteen year old self poured himself back into my limbs. This summer my fears took a holiday. This year my feet left the ground in a most purposeful way.