the neighbour with the window display of st georges flags and a ‘vote restore’ sign has put a swing in his front garden for the neighbouring refugee kids
there is a small stone bridge between two towns that has a two man toll both. 5p to pass. two old guys sit side by side - one with a liverpool fc cap, love on the knuckles and status quo in the soul - his colleague is made of gravel and fingers fixed in a heavy crane claw. we wonder how much they make - fists of 5 pence pieces - £100 a day? £500 a week? we joke that they blow the £500 each weekend on booze, drugs and women. and then monday morning arrives. They meet at the toll box. Each at their own door. the river black with a milky mist head. and it starts again with a single 5 pence piece dropped in to a strip club paper cup.
our time is a curved horizon that curves until it doesn’t i swam in my time resisting the urge to paddle a hundred thoughts churned and each limb itched to move i sank in my time and a memory came of a loud clock in a silent room - the smell of the dust of old things and then the relief of a TV too loud and time being just what’s left of the current temporary thing i have feared the time of old age understimulating and over stimulated an ocean of time but a mind on repeat and oblivious to it a loud clock to remind you it’s there, but it’s regular tick also signaling it leave i want to lie in the saline water that holds me still with a mind only for the sky, cold chest and warm face and the music of time that swells long before and after my body is within it
a cold English autumn morning says the day can be just this just sitting in morning clothes on unwashed skin bare armed and sockless sitting in the cold and feeling it meet the body’s warmth the cold mug and the warm coffee leaves yellow no call to arms like a summer morning no fear you’re having less fun no ambition more than another cup
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