My two trees have stood together for decades. Each autumn one discards its leaves while the other looks on rather perplexed.
"I revel in this form so that Mother Nature will embrace me and in the Spring I am to be reborn" says the naked tree.
"Hippy" mutters the evergreen.
I wake up and can't think which day it is
Tuesday or Wednesday I'm in such a tizz
I struggle to think then look at my socks
Then I remember - I'm wearing odd clocks
Occasionally during the night I heard a high speed train pass right through my house. I woke to realise it was the storm that's currently happening and not the dream I had where we'd bought the cheapest home in Northampton, straddling the track.
I won't use hair nets, don't use grips
They're not that handy to lie on
Then I awake to a big mistake
My hair like a dandelion!
He was a self-made man
He worked in a parts department
At night he didn't go home
He slept in assorted compartments.
I told my wife I wished I was Bob Ross
So she permed my hair into candy floss.
I wake a year older and ponder the thought.
I've reached 57, I started at nought
It's not been the fastest of accelerations
The speed bumps of life take us some acclimation.
But here I now stand in my 58th year
The journey's the point, whatever the gear.
We fought for the duvet and my wife's the victor
It's wrapped around her like a boa constrictor.
Time ticks so that we do not have to keep a count of our experiences
Time tocks to show us that one thing must follow another
Time stops everything from happening all at once
Time tricks us into believing that.
Tuesday arrives apologising for Monday, much how we might apologise for a boring +1 at a friends party.
Tuesday has nothing to apologise for. Neither boring nor the life and soul, Tuesday's much more practical. Tuesday will always deliver.
Tuesday's brought some tunes and a dip.
I was just thinking that if you took all the tea drinkers in the world right now and gathered them all together, do you know what?
...there wouldn't half be a lot of washing up to do!
Monday mumbles an apology as it drags us into the week. We put up with its odd idiosyncrasies because memories of the weekend are still quite fresh but cold. A bit like leftovers from a party. They'll be on the turn by Wednesday but by Friday we'll already be cooking new treats.
Silent Sunday sidles up with an absence of traffic noise and people. We should make use of this silence. With no light pollution we can see the stars. Maybe Sunday's silence brings with it a clarity of thought, far from the madding crowds, the only day that's a detached dwelling.
First cup of tea: abseiling through the window with a cuppa for my wife, wearing my black roll-neck sweater and black trousers -
all because the lady loves milky tea.
Saturday arrives as chilly as a public rebuke. My garden's in the midst of allowing Winter to begin to play hide and seek with its colours. Fallen leaves lie generously across my lawn like chocolate shavings on a rather delicious cake. I refill the bird table. Every little helps.
"Do not sup where the path may lead, sup instead where there is no path and leave a trail and a fanfare for the common man."
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Lake and Palmer - probably.
Friday bounds up to me like a playful puppy eager to start the weekend. I have to remind Friday that while the weekend is very fond of it, it isn't actually part of the weekend. Friday doesn't listen or care, it's little tail flashing left and right.
I guess I should walk it.
I look at the weather and feel Thursday shrug its shoulders. "Comme ci, comme ça" it might say, taking on the persona of an insouciant Frenchman. But we Brits strive for meteorological exactitude, so I check the Met Office forecast.
Grey cloud all day.
I shrug my shoulders.
Heading home to our bustling town after being perched on the very edge of the North Yorkshire moors for 4 days. Time moves more slowly up here, not least because Time has to counter steep hills at every winding turn.
I'll miss the silence.
Sometimes nothing is all you need.
From the Goth Festival. Whitby.
A man with a live parrot on his shoulder, or a parrot with a live man on its claws. You can wear any colour as long as its black. Two demons kiss by a novelty rock shop. Crystals, jet and fresh sea air, it lures the Goths out of their lair.
Are burnished through time
By the feet of the living dead.
From smugglers at Loggerheads
To Captain Cook's Endeavours -
All roads must lead to today.
These cobbles, such printing presses of history,
Ultimately guide me
Into the Jet Age.
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