I wake to an archipelago of clouds dropped upon a sea of uncertain blue. I dream of sailing between these islands, exploring their rugged coastlines, pursuing the lost and buried treasure of my mind. I look up once more to find that the map has changed. It always does.
Friday's early morning sky wears the merest hint of rouge and duly attracts some attention. Thin cloud tries its luck but with dreadful chat-up lines. There's a playful 'pinch-punch' nip to the air, maybe to remind us that autumn soon arrives and there are no returns of any kind.
Once I went to where I was going
But when I got there I got cross,
There was now here and my mind was just blown
By figuring out what I'd lost.
The sun rises late, blaming rumours of Autumn. Clouds bully their way across a wimpy sky. Rain falls where it wants. Pavements are varnished wet. House bricks suck it up but blush a deeper red. Puddles dance their peculiar rain dance as fallen leaves float down gutter-streams.
An oak leaf could be forgiven for thinking the world consists of nothing more than oak leaves. It's surrounded by oak leaves. It wouldn't think of a wider world; different trees and leaves, all looking for room to blossom and bloom, though some will fall, there's room for us all.
A few fallen leaves mingle around a tree in a dress rehearsal for Autumn. The echo of Summer will soon turn into a memory and eventually that memory will be nothing more than a myth. Nature's magic storytelling keeps the legend alive. We reimagine the myth through Hope.
tasty, timely, alliterative, tea,
free from all blank verse and hyperbole,
make yourself another, make it hot and wet,
keep the meter running for your own rhyming cuplet.
Sunday's found the dressing-up box, trying on lighter shades until one fits. Time's added one more day to everything, challenging us to spot the difference. Today's still a fuzzy silhouette of what it will be. The reassuring clink of teaspoon on china begins the focus process.
Early morning drive. I pass an old man bent double with age as he walks meekly across a bridge. His leathery, tattooed arms, once host to raucous stories, are now just faded memories of sin. He once walked upright. I watch him shrink to a dot as he recedes in my rear-view mirror.
Puffed-up and bruised, thunder clouds bully a uniform sky. With choreographed alacrity they appear to dismiss the blankets of grey in which they move, brushing them aside like a street gang in a musical. In place of thunder claps I almost expect to hear a clicking of fingers.
That recalcitrant party guest of a heatwave has finally been persuaded to leave. The sun rises for the first time in ages without malevolent intent. Clouds gather. Reunited long-lost friends. Separate at first, edging together. We're back to our best. Moaning about the rain.
Our council's introduced a prose-pipe ban. I'm watering each line by watering can. It's working to a point but things ain't fine. Me glottal stops are with'rin' on the vine. They say that poetry's the next affected. So hidden in these lines I hope protects it.
I'm starting to forget what clouds look like. Brittle soil cracked by a toffee hammer sun. Brillo-pad grass stained nicotine-yellow. The coolness of the morning, a promise from a convincing charlatan. Perhaps the cost of living crisis means we can only now afford one season? Hot!
Wednesday's playing spot the difference with Tuesday. I see the early sky's been lightly doodled upon by a bored morning. Overnight, the Earth's tilted one more click towards autumn. The trees begin to notice these minute vibrations of change from deep beneath an unyielding soil.
What if we're the shadows in a world of solid black?
What if we're reflections of the shapes behind our back?
What if we just shine in moments all too brief to see?
What if our world passes as another's fantasy?
What if our world simply just does not exist at all?
Mere shadows upon shadows up on someone else's wall.
Caught in the early sun, the tips of trees
Opera's quite boring
and face it, quite long,
but our tea-drinking nation
we know a good song.
We maybe can't stretch
to operas high C's,
but the British sing best
in the key of high teas.
Sunday holds its breath, waiting to exhale. Soon it'll breathe its warm, August air over a parched town. The world looks so much brighter in a Technicolour, golden summer, yet I've no idea how the trees stay so green. Some say they paint their leaves in the dead of night...
Friday arrives. Weekend clothes stuffed into an overnight bag. Our summer holiday street is devoid of kids so early on. As if the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang has visited. Even now I shudder at the memory of his feline grace and fear a horses hoof on cobbled stone.
Binmen arrive in our silent street with a clink, clank, bash and whirr as the street's rubbish is crushed by onomatopoeia. It sounds like a suburban End Of Days. I guess I'd miss my house but I feel a tiny bit smug that next doors lawn would finally get to be as eaten up as mine.
A sticky, overcast start to the day with clouds resembling badly-made porridge. My kitchen fills with the deep, rumbling bass notes of my kettle. Shaking itself to the boil it sits steaming in the corner like a scolded child on a naughty step. The petulance of the simple cuppa.
A recycling box with No.42 on its side is sitting outside No.50. Perhaps it's recycled its owners. We have more litter in our street than the posh houses one street up. Trickle-down home economics? 2 black cats stare uneasily at each other as if unsure whether real or reflection.
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