The
smaller galleries and museums were taken with their contents barely saved.
Entire movements and historical finds never to be seen or known again. An
architectural flourish that never left a certain façade of a certain building
of a certain street in that gone city.
The
peri-urban bleed, suburbia and greenbelt suddenly met with all those who leave,
their myriad accent, a pace and lifestyle born of those stacked bricks and
panes of glass, those canal pathways and cobble stone old town.
Some
never come to know and are taken too. A full teacup on the side table as they
wonder why the estate is so quiet now. Pigeons and robins and foxes and
squirrels and rats wonder at the emptiness, where the usual torrent of street-feed
has gone, before sensing that impending oneness and making haste.
A
vague Pompeii, a quiet Hiroshima, a cold Dresden, a dark Pripyat, it is just
gone. A new blank spot on a map. Tags and graffitoes with street in-joke remain
in scant few memories.
For
a few days the roads busy heading out, and then it was just those vehicles that
couldn’t start or had been anonymous a while that remained. An entire
neighbourhood of terraces with just one turquoise Robin Reliant to count. A
dilapidated van on an industrial road ending in a dockyard. A people carrier
raised off the workshop floor with no wheels in a garage with the shutter down.
It
all had to be left there.
And
then.
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