Vox Meditantis

Tanganyika, September 1962. A disused railway halt on the Central Line. Two men wait for a train that may not come: one who spent thirty years mapping this country for the Crown, and one who now carries the theodolite in his own name. Between them, fifteen years of shared silence and a bearing neither will concede. Then a boy walks in from the track with a satchel mended in wire, a blistered heel, and five words that stop the conversation dead. A scene about the end of everything, told at walking pace. Bring a warm coat. The light goes out.

Read the original post.

Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.