Writing & Other Things
The ten forty-five does not stop along the way.
Pushing down the line,
ignoring towns where nothing ever happens,
it keeps on moving.
A suck of air
the only movement
these places ever feel
as with a rattle and crack
we charge through empty stations and lonely platforms,
pulling away from their vacuum and void
ever onwards.
The smell of the market
hangs in the air.
It hitched a ride
two stops back.
Fresh fish and the smell of dusty streets
on a warm summers day underground.
I am a little God
of tarnished silver
lying silently in the grass.
A secret thing,
hidden by earth
waiting to be discovered.
He closed his eyes and imagined the sea. The smell was wrong, the dryness, the sootiness of the air, it was all wrong. But if he closed his eyes and just listened, then the sound, the sound was just right.
The sound of the sea.
He stood still underneath the tower block, eyes firmly shut, just listening. If anyone had seen him, they’d have thought he was mad. Someone dangerous, swaying in the half light. Someone it was safer to avoid.
Continue readingThere was a flap on the letter box, which would rattle, rat-a-tat-a-tat, as the mail landed on the mat with an empty thud, and Mary would watch for it every morning, waiting for it to arrive. Every morning without fail she did this. Though she couldn’t say why. Not exactly.
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