Wednesday, 19 December 2012

A Slow Morning

And so the morning croaks into life around Husborne Crawley. A dull, gray, dull-gray kind of morning that causes one to reach instinctively - as one remembers the words we learnt at that creaking, croaking, God-instilling school, shining white with the haze of fluorescent light as we poured out, into the  knees-scabbing playground where the asphalt burnt and the tennis balls stung as they flew - orange-shaped yet lemon-coloured - across a wormwood sky - causes one to reach, I say, for the word-forms if not the thought-forms of that thought-worm of our memories and text-books, Mr Thomas. Mine's a whisky, thanks, but I'll wait till the sun's over the yard-arm.

As the sickly, trickly, gray-treacle trickle of light smears across, heavy with the mist mizzling across the Vale and showing, like a grudging householder revealing the Calvados decanter, the dangerous beauties of the Amazon warehouse, the other side of that hard, slow, concrete river of traffic where commuters, computer-bound, half-dream, half-drive in a half-paid-for car, the ghostly figures of Fenris Wolf, Herne the Hunter and - lest we fall into cliche - the Third Marquis of Tavistock - merge into the drawn-out, dreadful, death-full dregs of night. Beaker people stream out across the grass, tasting the morning air - those that smoke, croak, and hope for the morning Woodbine before the Pouring-out of Beakers. They are never satisfied, and never quick enough - and will stand, ashless, restless and cashless, through those acheing minutes of holiness till the silent benediction is loudly pronounced, the last oxymoron explained, the ringing, singing, tree-lined avenue of trees fills once again with egg-bound, bacon-found, toast-hoping Beaker Folk - and they can gasp, grasping, at a gasper before their repast.

Wish the days would start get longer. Can't keep this stuff up. It's murder on the soul.

1 comment :

  1. Preach!
    I don't really get Christmas much any more—what really cheers me up is 22nd December, when the days start getting longer 'a cock's step each day' as my Irish grandmother used to say.
    It takes ages to show, but at least you know it's happening.


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