Friday, January 4, 2013


Pofadder is as small as they say.  Sandy lots beneath an open sky.  Every plot is full of lots of space.  Tiny house, big yard, scrawny, wire-thin fence.  Huge fat man that owns the garage-cum-restaurant.  Was quite a thing to get my phone charged.  Had to ask him first, him in his tiny little office, his big bulk.  Predominant color is grades of yellow and brown, splashed with green in gentle, plant explosions.  Sun drenched trees reach out and up, thorny and twisted. 

I count five windmills, four of them working in the breeze.  Very little traffic through here.  Very little. 

There are 12 cars in this town.  12 cars, 25 locals, and five windmills.  There is a petrol pump, B&B and curio seller.  There's a guy in a blue shirt carrying a clear plastic bottle, and there are stranger's cars passing through, passing through.  There are 20 homes, seven outbuildings and a church, tall and straight.  The church connects this town to heaven.  And the plants and trees rise up lush, virile and green, bursting with deep water.  The windmills are doing their good work.

That's about all I've got to say. I don't know the people and don't want to explore.

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