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November 04, 2009
Beneath the big white shiny moon
Beneath the big white shiny moon, I ran this morning.
The chill dark still had the keys, handing over only slowly to the day. Alarms in snoring bedrooms, bathroom lights appearing, and cold tarmac beneath my feet as white van man accelerates into the day, thick with choking exhaust.
In the park, wet grass is covered with leaves; a thousand shades of orange, yellow, brown and red - hard, resistant, like grease-proof, and slippy beneath my soft rubber feet, beneath the big white shiny moon, though stained. On glancing inspection, there are dark patches in the brightness,not at first seen.
The children's play area is lonely. The roundabout is round, but not about; and only dew drops use the slide. Conifers stand black and tall against the pale gold eastern sky; the cemetary stones quiet sentinels to things no longer so; and black shiny recycling bins, all in a row, like a guard of honour.
Empty buses pass by, with a cleaner or two in the back; Polish youths with rucksacks by the side of the road, waiting for a lift. Smeary kitchen lights in homes, kettles boiling, and outside the bathroom door, the age-old question: 'O God, are you still in there?!'
But God finished in the toilet ages ago. There's a day to create, between the big white shiny moon and weakening winter sun, waking in the blue-gold eastern sky.
Posted by Mr Bojangles at November 4, 2009 08:30 AM