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A poem/musing in memory of my mother, Maureen. I see you still It’s in those small moments, you arrive And always without warning This morning, it was birds They flew into the air before me as I walked And there you were again present in this moment and made real Yet I cannot reach out
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The poet Ian McMillan is very fond of early morning strolls, and often posts intriguing snippets on Twitter, of the things he observes while out walking. Reading these tweets, you get the impression that the world has altered ever so slightly. Snails slither towards discarded beer cans, eagerly anticipating a party that is still days
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It came more or less unnoticed. Simply slipped inside and curled up while no-one was looking. Then, when the moment was right, made its presence felt and let it be known that it was here. Here for good. Here for as long as it took.
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They were wandering through the park when she started to imagine how they may appear to someone who was passing by. Two people walking, their faces anonymous revealing nothing, avoiding eye contact.
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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…
