Tim Meacham

Singing slate 2020

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It took several hours to open the door to the last room. The space had been hermetically sealed and there was a slight hiss of air as I turned the door handle and broke the rubber seal. I felt a breath of released stillness touch my skin, and in that moment, life had never been more precious. The slate hovered at eye level in the centre of the bare room. In the window was his chair -bearing signs of considerable wear. On the glass the dust shadows of a thousand bird impacts veiled the Ash tree beyond.