Friday arrives under an inscrutable sky. A giant cloud of indeterminable colour. But slowly I see trodden-down snow, badly-made porridge, over-boiled white vests, papier mache, cabbage water, wallpaper paste, the last colour a bruise turns.
Who knew grey could be so interesting?
Atop the trees a beacon Moon.
Buried deep beneath the folded flesh of living cloud, shining like a lost pearl on an ocean floor. Soon a jealous Sun will stomp all over the night, demanding fealty to its own garish gold.
The Moon shines not with pride or envy but because it can.
The morning sneaks in under marshmallow clouds. A half-deflated gazebo, a metaphor for Monday.
In a garden of hibernating features does the evergreen flora ever wonder where we all go?
Sunday arrives on frigid air.
A 'Do Not Disturb' sign dangles from the morning. I feel the rocking rumble of a distant, passing train, hurrying away the remaining echoes of Saturday. I want to hop that train and become a hobo to the past; drift through yesterdays, stealing time.
Saturday arrives freshly laundered and appears as bright and crisp as a newly-ironed shirt. I feel the nascent cold tickling my nostrils as I draw in the sharp morning air. My breath escapes in vapour form. I watch it fade into the morning, knowing not where I end and it begins.
The merest hint of rouge; applied to the cheeks of the morning sky, like the face of an old great aunt, it looms over us all, threatening to lean in for a kiss, covering us in face powder and that lingering scent of a perfume we thought Estée Lauder stopped making in the 70's.
Morning drive: an old woman in a headscarf sits on a doorstep. A lady in her dressing gown stands waiting by the road with 2 mugs of tea in her hand. An abandoned electric scooter propped against a wall. An ambulance, alarming its way through traffic.
Short, unfinished stories.
Someone's taken a toffee hammer to the clouds and left them cracked and bruised. Sunlight hits the windows of the posh houses. In a trickle-down world we have to wait for our turn. The trees, once silhouettes of the night, are gently teased by the morning into colour and form.
gossamer mist tickles dawn's early light
remembering dreams of fancy and flight
Sunday arrives on the wings of a fly
so soft we don't see that the night has passed by
little is said in such lands of the strange
where day follows night in such perfect exchange.
Once;
a pile of dirty, fallen leaves,
whipped up by the wind,
corralled into a shop
doorway, covered
a sleeping
man.
He
becomes
more invisible
to the passers by,
a pile of fallen leaves
atop a pile of fallen being.
Someone's son.
Someone's sin.
Remembering.
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