you are more than i know – i’m just asking
up and down
making my way through the rows and the uniform. who lived, who lives, who will live?
i cannot disregard these experiences. memory and imagination is all we are. let them, and us, swim freely a while, unfettered. till the shoreline becomes distant and we come conscious with a submerged stretch to unreachable pebble bed…
it’s 8.30am and shutters clatter sharply in the cold – one-way off the stapleton road. the first deal of the day: a flicked gold wrist swaps candycane; a quick tryst down a darkened lane.
before the bridge i lean arms over iron railings sawn back, sanded a creamy black. did you know they converted gods’ house to flats?
up above: the new day washes his face – painted white by moonlight – sat on a rooftop perch, hidden by a tree behind the church.
branches tickle pavement host, sent down by a weighty ghost.
“hang on to your sense of wonder” the girl says, “never let it go”. and she turns, eyes wide under hooded home. “but be free not to know“.
a bearded cane. a zipped stella. a laughing car. four feet sync elixir to memory, returning shortly with metallic percussion slaps in blue polly. the sun shouts his name and bangs his belly. RAAAAAAA!
taking time in the thali nation, i sit at the lone piano widow and watch passers-by chew melodies and sip saint marks’ invocations.
the outside: a hooded boy and pal. they hug: nose vertical, eyes horizontal. the dog with the child in his eyes barks at his own reflection.
the otherside: a girl with fern latticed eyes etched out of dark amber popped into pink sockets. “be free to know what you think” she nods with a humble blink, eyelids blotting out beads of ink.
around the corner of brenner, boydog tread – past traditional dress and frilly spread. they disappear into distance and dark, passing, as they do, boy painting his doorway red.
“alright?” i ask.”yeeaaah” he says, letting out a gentle breath, stepping off the stair.
to the corner he walks and into the sun. with nothing to say and even less to be done.
till he turns, and with spoken word so soft, so free, that the letters stumble randomly through air and battle gravity to reach me:
“don’t you see? this whole world’s a playground. to be forever young – just be”
thank you for reading don’t forget the sun. take care. k((o))
6 meets 2. over junction 3 m32 – where c-3po and r2-d2 barbecue bumpers to a constant flow. meets 5: alive to the promise of morning sunbeams onto fresh laid snow.
having passed under and out, i turn to sit and face the mural wall.
blue skies match, but the rolling white has mostly fallen all about. green fields: when were they?
easton way on to stapleton.
where a barber fills his door, fresh lit tab drawn deep between “maalin wanagsan!” and smile to friend crossing into sun across the street. i stop, we greet. i rest a while to hear him speak.
ahead: a gathering at the stop, on the other side from these shadowed shops.
i can’t see clearly, i can’t make my shot – it’s just not clean (there’s always traffic in between). so i break, breathe, lean… and blink my eyes to change the scene.
onwards along northern rd, with feet and thought numb from cold.
such – when i hear a locomotive shoot the sky, smell jerk chicken wafting by and see dreads raise spliff and snowballs high – i rub my ears, nose, eyes and seek out shelter.
and so: sat on rusty girder beneath the tracks, amongst the complicated beauty of an underpass; coach house lunch on lap and red stripe can in snowy cooler over grass…
i know: this must all be a dream.
thank you for reading don’t forget the sun. take care. k x
head lowered, i lean and rest. out of the glare to a temporary hush.
oh to leave those four walls – the screens, thoughts and routines that keep me in place. let’s fall: drop all.
an empty english orchard. soft pastel pips and horizontal stems. i catch the last apple, bite.
slow steps over cement soft as sand; i feel two adjacent glasses and absorb the warmth in, behind and beyond the both.
‘very sorry, not ready’ (the elderly chef), ‘just warming up, it’s been a long cold night. i will cook an oven bright for you’. an oven bright; a flavour hard to define.
birds corner and flowers sing; a braid of little voices, the scent of another place.
now the ride, as south wind clears a path – i open my eyes and rejoin myself at Ra’s side, sucked in by slipstream. we bounce in and out – invisible accidents/explosions – all over the glass and pavement. yes!
falling off, i open one last time to see her face. and then Ra was gone: over the sky, underneath the sea.
i turn to retrace my 31 steps… an hour had passed…
the cold, grey wind numbs my face and dulls my senses. i follow the lady as the sand turns back to hard, black cement. she is a juggler. with my return, so too am i.
thanks you for reading don’t forget the sun. take care. k x