His grin stretched across the landscape, intersecting the altar of the sleeping church. The house sloping on the hillside slid that bit more down towards the sea. The green was encroached upon by yellow.
A purple wind of trouble blew along the street. In the yellow house where the children hadn’t eaten an argument started between the parents. The argument had sprung up from their bed.
His grin stretched across the landscape, and a bird flying past was stunned by a haze of blue. A flower behind the house thought again before it unfurled a bud. Somewhere in a barn troublesome dreams made the roosters tremble. Someone walking across the street was scorched by the distant glint of the celestial eye.
That day we were troubled by the memory of a yellow rose. The blossoms fell from the apple tree because he smiled. The rim of the sky darkened a little. Somewhere a girl who could have been a poet started to weep. No one knows why.
His grin stretched the landscape, altering the spaces between the house and the church. But he was an outline in our minds, like the indeterminate silver of the horizon. Only the landscape saw him for what he was. The most potent things often appear not to be there. All we saw was a fading yellow mist in the air.