Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
There had been a moon that night, if I remember correctly. Only it served as feeble backlighting for threatening clouds. But there I stood in front of the fire pit made in the back garden last summer–The fire cackled and crackled– and me just close enough to feel the burn but out of the reach of a hole protected by remnants of a failed rockery, dark and soulless through Christmas. But here I was staring into the pit– my face just out of reach from pawing fire fingers— crouching down just close enough to feel the burn–just close.
I stood up, put one hand in my pocket, the other holding a can of Carling–David Bowie singing out “oooo look out for rock n rollers”– Me in layers of fleece and wool–fingerless mittens–cold cutting through the back of my denim jeans–toes feeling the January black below–But the warmth on my thighs made it so worth it. The lager felt good going down my throat. Oddly refreshing on such a night.
I fed the flames with my days work– poetry that did not feel right–scraps of images–some lines meant to be a book–you– and some receipts that I found tucked away— I meant to scrapbook them– But who has the time?
I smiled because I thought I needed all these shards of past endeavours. It turns out, no one misses things they do not know exist–like the chupacabra, tunnel fairies and God. And whatever that was before–the stuff that happened but did not. Amber and red and white and orange, flipping and flapping and burning and turning against the black of night–But then, I felt a drop on forehead–on nose–on cheek–then the sky poured down. I picked up the radio in one hand and crushed the can of Carling in the other and went back in the house.
“Time may change me, but I can’t change time…”–