Factory conversions,
flattery, aversions,
to Northampton's past.
The old boot and shoe place
ripped into new space,
boxes to last.
Ghosts of the closers,
the sounds of bulldozers,
memory, bruised.
All selling like hot cakes
to people of all shapes
in Chinese shoes.
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
The sun's behind a slate-grey sky; the world no longer in Kodachrome. A man vigorously rubs a scratchcard as if his life depends on it. It could be you. The cracks on the pavements are beginning to resemble a map of The London Underground, courtesy of The Northampton Overground.
Sunday's blue sky fever has broken and small clouds, like guests at a school reunion, mingle awkwardly. I hear the sound of a distant passing train. I wonder if it knows it's in a distant, passing tweet? It's officially Summer. Both butter and aftersun gel now live in the fridge.
I wake from the heat of the night, a sticky toffee-apple. Birds lollop about, sapped of the gift of flight, frolicking instead in the dew of an invitingly cool lawn. The sun hides in plain sight. Only later will it be unmasked, like a Scooby Doo villain, in our weekend whodunnit.
Early Drive. A vigorous rain shower disappears into a jaundiced grass. I follow a petulant double decker as it swings from side to side, winding its way through the industrial estate like a moody teenager. The rain shower ends and the world looks like it's hardly broken sweat.
Early drive. Ouroboros, snaking traffic; the greed of impatience snarling nose to tail. Suddenly we're all driving Miss Daisy as we pass a police speed camera van until the Wacky Races restart and I'm passed by a number of Dick Dastardly's, destined never to catch that pigeon...
Early Drive. A cloudy, Etch-a-Sketch sort of sky. The myth of sunshine balances on such days. Cars bustle along and dawdle; dawdle and bustle along. Punctuality is recovered and lost; lost and recovered. I dawdle. As if a reward for my patience, I hit every green light home.
Posts
All Comments
