I draw a fingernail
through the ice on the inside of the pane
and see a single strip of the world.
Fog.
The trees likes ghostly sentinels
on the road.
A car going over the hump-back canal bridge
with a toot-toot.
I pull the blankets up,
my breath condensing in the cold air
the quilt has beads of moisture.
I glance at the ticking clock.
Twenty minutes before the rush
to travel ten miles to school
and I select a book
Tolkein or Enid Blyton?
I choose Proust.
through the ice on the inside of the pane
and see a single strip of the world.
Fog.
The trees likes ghostly sentinels
on the road.
A car going over the hump-back canal bridge
with a toot-toot.
I pull the blankets up,
my breath condensing in the cold air
the quilt has beads of moisture.
I glance at the ticking clock.
Twenty minutes before the rush
to travel ten miles to school
and I select a book
Tolkein or Enid Blyton?
I choose Proust.
7 comments:
Oh! This is so sad. All the little details are like watching a series of freeze-frames because life is too big to bear in its entirely. Beautiful.
It was a difficult time. My bed bedcame my fortress.
beautiful and so sad. loved the single strip scraped through the ice. brought back memories of after my mum died staying off work in my flat and after a while starting to feel like Lara and Doctor Zhivago in that iced up house knowing you'd be found and dragged out.
That's pretty much how I felt, except that I was still at school at the time.
that must have been very hard losing her while you were still young. Your mother sounded very vibrant from one of your old posts.
A sad story, I am sorry to read that it is yours.
Thank you.
It was over thirty years ago now, and just a memory.
Post a Comment