We passed each other walking in opposite directions. She was on the phone broadcasting loudly to anyone who wanted to listen.
“I’m homeless, I’ve nowhere to live, I’ve lost all my clothes, I’ve managed to save some of yours.”
She walked on, I walked on. That was it. There is no more to say.
I came up from my own world
for the rare summer,
pleasant scented breeze
made evening perfect,
lifted my clear head and strolled
until I met nobody,
close to the longest day.
The flowers were tied to the railing. There were several bunches but they were all fading now. Someone didn’t make it. It made me pause where once a pause could have meant life.
The flowers disguised numbness and despair. Picked for innocence. Bred for beauty, delicate radiance.
I walked on. I played no part in this.
There is a road – it can’t be seen from where I’m sat but I know it is there.
I can see the break in the trees.
If I work hard I can picture two millennia of travellers making their way along the path
Through the break in the trees.
In other circumstances it might have been a river but it is not, although there is a lake
Surrounded by trees.
The countryside is green now – it is the middle of June and it has been a particularly wet spring.
The trees too are green,
Enjoying their short burst of growth before the colours change and fade
And the trees grow stoic.
But for now they are in full leaf and the cars race by on their way somewhere else and oblivious to the fact
That the trees are there, always.
They line the horizon, wet, wind-brushed and painted and make me pause and think because of
The break in the trees.
Chikkin
Uniuns
Chikkin stok pot
Tind tomatos
Beycun
Mushrumes
Pepur
Potatos
Ingrediunt X
Lotsa lurve
It’s raining invisible rain. I can’t see it but I can hear it. This is one of those “got things to do but they are mostly outdoor jobs and I’m taking my time to do the few indoor ones” days. The indoor jobs include buying some new light bulbs from Tesco which involves going outdoors but I’m cool about that. I will be wearing a coat, waterproof, Goretex. That last bit is important because it should ensure that I stay dry at all times when moving between indoor bits. As dry as I need to be anyway. Not sure about my specs and I don’t care about the legs because I’m wearing shorts and sandals – the essential British summer gear I’d say. To finish off I’m sorry about the post title because it is a bit deceptive. I’m not actually downtown. It just sounded better than say rainy suburban days. Right I’m off to Tesco.
I’m on an EasyJet flight from Luton Aipowt to Berlin. Sat quite comfortably on a front row aisle seat having forked out £20 for speedy boarding. Worth every penny. In fact had I forked out £12.50 in advance I could have been sat in the ServisAir Executive lounge before hand. As it is I spent most of the waiting time eating lunch and doing emails and still left enough juice on my laptop battery for the whole flight ahead of me.
We were 20 minutes late taking off. 5 persons had made last minute decisions not to travel which meant that 5 bags had to be retrieved from the hold. You wonder whether one of them had a premonition. The real reason is almost certainly mundane. Bad back suddenly got worse, phobia about flying returned, straightforward family argument (again!), etc etc etc. I stuck in three etc’s there but in reality I couldn’t think of any more reasons on the spur of the moment, which was almost certainly the way they decide not to travel – on the spur of the moment that is – it’s unlikely that they had taken a lot of time to think about this or they would probably not have bothered checking their bags in. I will never know their fate and tb quite h not in the least way concerned.
Whilst in “departures” at the airport I purchased a copy of the Daily Telegraph for £1.20. This was only to (more…)
They fell where they sat
settee, armchair or bed
the sickness took them
aspirin soon exhausted
bottles of Lucozade
scattered empty and liberally
on the floor around them
face cloth doused in water
but long run dry
falls off the forehead
and is not replaced
the victims fall in
and out of sleep
left alone for long
periods of up to
fifteen minutes
whilst their partners
selfishly get on
with the housework
We were driving down to the tip at Great Northern Terrace and passed an old man pushing a handcart. All we had was an old carpet. The handcart was piled high with what looked like bits of an old boiler with its steel chimney. He held a steady pace – looked as if he must have been pretty fit.
He belonged in a Hovis advert really, with his flat cap firmly on his head and a look of determination on a timeworn face. I almost felt guilty driving past him. He must have come a fair old distance as there were no houses nearby and here we were in the car with just a measly bit of carpet. Did I say guilty? I think I probably meant inadequate.
We got to the tip and disposed of the carpet in the appropriate hopper. As we were leaving the dump the old man arrived at the entrance, no letup in his speed. We drove off. I wouldn’t recognise him again, unless perhaps he was pushing a handcart, with that same flat cap.
Two young salesmen smart in shiny suits
Take a short break, expense account cafe,
Corporate linguists, expert jargonistas
Sit now in silence, pondering their day.
Crossed, a random line in the twitter sand,
twenty thousand statements lost in a flow,
downstream the cybersea, stormiest of places,
tossed, examined, ignored, replied or retweeted,
unseen by most and mostly rubbish
peppered with an occasional gem, perhaps
a reflection of life and personality
insignificant, except to myself.
Wild ambition-fuelled follows,
follow back at your peril,
modern day Eleanor Rigby
waits for something to happen,
a craving in space and time
where are all the people?
do they have other lives?
did I miss something?
twitter is forever.
Three sentences, gone, unrecovered. A broken promise by Microsoft Word. A rewrite was considered but no, let them be lost, cast adrift on a sinking raft of memories. Time is short and we must move on to arrive at our camp before night time. If we are delayed, fumbling, we will miss our destination and ourselves drift, blind with not even the stars to guide us.
Staring out of the window the yellow headed tulips have opened wide but the reds seem reluctant to follow. A blue painted wooden garden chair sits in splendid isolation on the lawn. The grass needs a cut but it is too wet, as is common practice during droughts and times of hosepipe ban. Thunderous Odin casts down his wrath; his energy arouses false anger.
But still the bird sings, perched in the hedge at the side of the garden. The rain brings the worms up to the surface. The noise of the rain on the roof has drowned out the birdsong. For all I know it works to the same principle of the refrigerator. When the door is shut the light is out. Is this the same for the bird when the rain gets too noisy?
I have to go now. Goodbye.
The leaves are back, it’s been a while,
tender green delicates
emerge blinking in the newly sprung sun.
The rain keeps them fresh, droplets roll,
soak the bedraggled soul
finding shelter under the canopy.
Drink deep, smell that forgotten smell,
wet neck warm face smiling
in harmony with a birdborn chorale.
Winter has returned to LN2. The rain is pelting down outside and I have lit the fire in the front room – something we had given up on for the summer. On the wireless the BBC news informs us of a hosepipe ban. The domestic cricket season has kicked off but the week of summer is clearly over and soon the shops will be putting out their Christmas displays. We very much enjoyed the salad we had one day last week but are now glad that the Sunday roast has returned. My pair of shorts can go back in the drawer. The t shirt gets to stay out. It is worn all year round, from October onwards in lieu of a vest. The tan has disappeared already. In fact I don’t think I got one this year. I was in the office that day. The football season is already back, or perhaps it hasn’t yet finished. It’s difficult to tell. Although we lament the passing of the short British summer I am looking forward to the Winter Olympics in London this year. August is one of the few months of the year we can guarantee snow in the UK. I must remember to leave food out for my feathered friends and to break the ice on the bird bath. Fortunately we didn’t get around to taking the thick counterpane off the bed which is where I’ll be headed shortly to save on gas and electricity.
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