Friday, 20 September 2013

Lurch


Fleet of foot, the fox slips over the brow of the hill road; body dark, eyes lit: a photographic negative. Boy misses it but we are in good time for his early bus.
He heads for London with a coach of arty students, two cheese sandwiches and a camera. (Return time: roughly midnight.)
The house is quiet, bar the thump of Dog's tail. Sleep is not calling. There is leftover coffee in a silver flask.
From the porch steps I see the sky lighten, the early cloud drift, the tree silhouettes still leafed, like dark lace; the oak reminds me of a Spanish shawl, a widow's dress.
-Imagine a widow in this breaking dawn light: the sun rising on such a different life.
Birds are piping shrill; traffic on the A30 flows, a constant churn.
The steps are cold: I have on a woollen coat, and flip-flops.
-All over the world, such changes are happening: seasons and circumstances. History seems a clumsy lurch: if we get to hold hands awhile, that is grace in a clumsy world. Good to be stoic but one must leave gaps: it's where hope can get in. All good armour needs a chink, if one is to be human, part of this perception curve.
Out of night, a landscape appears.


3 comments:

  1. Lisa, this is a perfect example of why you are one of my favorite writers anywhere. Merci.

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  2. 'Good to be stoic but one must leave gaps: it's where hope can get in.'

    My eyes are watering. I just read this to my sister and husband and the three of us felt the appropriate quiet joy.

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  3. To be read with such appreciation is joyful and humbling. Reciprocity rocks, ladies, thank you xxx

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