The train passes
House after house after
Nature disposed for
The greys of
Yellow crane accents
Fighting the wind offers
Before my reflected images
Shouts back in a passing train
Or, so they say
His head was emptied, daily
Unruly and unwanted truths,
Real or not
Spilled out to those around
made permanent in the ether
False truths and true
Can I see?
The stranger in
Looks back from the photos
A smile or
Worn deep across his face as
He sees his future
Not even the ennui can fill the space inside.
Look, he said.
The past is a worship of
The future asks you to live for it.
Live for it, he thought
Staring from the sockets that windowed
the reality to which he was subscribed
The reflection looked back but said nothing
Reflections don’t understand
Start now, he said
See, a line engraved under everything that once was
His reflection grimaced, gnashed it’s teeth
the mirror’s glass a cage to this beast
It was Tuesday when they said goodbye. Packing up the car, they drove out to the edge of the cliffs. Sat. Drank tea from the thermos. Looked out.
The back of the car was full. And the boot.
They looked at each other and released the hand brake, leaping from the car just moments before it plummeted to the beach below.
Uncle had always loved making sand castles.
People keep talking about my foot.
It’s a leg end.
Optimism covers me
a charity shop coat
others’ success and
but it, ill fitting and
is shrugged off
to be put
to one side
An offer came by email and, unusually, he bit.
Gathering all of the images from childhood and after, he collated his life in a series of albums.
That one. That was a terrible year. The contents were good, but the binding was damaged by the time the book arrived. Whilst waiting for it to be resent, he looked at the gap in the bindings as the remainder of his life stretched across shelves in the lounge.
And this is what I am, and how I came to be, he thought. Where is the ambition. Where is the success. Here I see fake smiles and excuses, page after page.
Deciding that the missing year should form the basis for adventure, he looked into the last pages of prior volume and the first of its successor, and wondered what he’d done. What he should have, could have.
The next morning saw the purchase of a tent, waterproofs, a backpack and matches. As the house burned down, he set out on his bike, to recreate the past.
The world turned slowly to the
each hour or half marked
by a chime, cake, or both
for today will always be Sunday
a time to discuss the
of those we once knew,
and the current wrongs of the world