reluctantly part of the political machinery

* 
Osama bin Laden dead – what does that mean for the Arab world, for us? This world so enduring, so transient. Change the only constant. Our penny towards the future: Bank Holiday Monday, beans to go in, but now leafletting for the Greens. River Dart, dreaming of trout and drownings. Confetti of willowseed-froth on its slow surface. Chill wind. Wild garlic flowers and a meadow, sandwiched between road bridge and road bridge, of slumbering ginger South Devon cattle. Dog walkers, runners, people ringing their bike bells. One tiny determined snail. Plaintive whistle of the steam train. Wastelots and hoardings and the beginnings of fireweed husting the cracks. It's spring and I'm still alive! And oh wisteria! Drapes and festoons of wisteria! Glimpses of lives along the river, the backstreets: a teenage girl, eyes puffy with crying; the artist's studio, coffee and sculpture; Ohsocozy's antispetic backyard; the elderly woman eager to shadow the letterbox, lonely for a letter, not a leaflet, a visit not a circular; a raised voice; gnome refuge – a whole suburban theme park of gnomes in a couple of square yards; a lost corner, an ancient yew; a notice in a window, with photo, run off on a domestic printer, telling us the youngish occupant died suddenly and recently - come to the wake, here, yes in her house, wear your brightest colours, be summer (and the abandoned littered plate, empty glass, on her wall); old guy gardening: 'Well I don't usually vote this way, but after our chat about runner beans girl I just might'; girl asleep in her campervan right outside her front door; a flame blaze of azalea in a derelict garden; a duck and three drakes; geese overhead. Tired feet now. Mind returning to bin Laden. The snail, two hours and two yards further on towards snail-goal. Thrush starting up a rainsong in the silver birch. River, waiting, lazing, dreams of trout.
*