From the Bus, photo by F. E. Clark.
I Remember
I remember sitting on the bus, looking through the drips and licks of water running down through the condensation. Rain driech day. On the cold side of the road. Mould and fallen leaves. Damp creeping. Ivy. Childminders with prams bump and jostle. “Are we there yet?” CCTV cameras, Wi-Fi, unwired electro charged. Greyness.
I remember the lick of salt on my skin. Lemon poppy-seed cake. A clear, clean, endless beach. Cold sparkling.
I remember the dark coming down and the mist gathering on the hill as we walked. Too far to turn back. Not far enough to be there yet.
I remember the song he sang as he sat on his own at the back of the bus.
I remember the coconut scented gorse and the larks in the impossible blue.
I remember the slide down, skewwhiff and juddering. No end in sight. Into the black.
I remember the quiet place. I wish for it now. Some carry theirs with them. Too heavy for me to manage with all I have with me. Carry it through, set it down lightly, there on the sideboard in the front room. Too fragile to look at. If you drop it you’re done for.
I remember, I forgot something important. Scry and scrape, but it’s illusive and gone. Will you help me find it?
*
This is a piece of free writing I did at a workshop I attended yesterday. We were tremendously lucky to have the poet and author Alan Spence lead the workshop - which was inspiring and thought provoking.
I remember the lick of salt on my skin. Lemon poppy-seed cake. A clear, clean, endless beach. Cold sparkling.
I remember the dark coming down and the mist gathering on the hill as we walked. Too far to turn back. Not far enough to be there yet.
I remember the song he sang as he sat on his own at the back of the bus.
I remember the coconut scented gorse and the larks in the impossible blue.
I remember the slide down, skewwhiff and juddering. No end in sight. Into the black.
I remember the quiet place. I wish for it now. Some carry theirs with them. Too heavy for me to manage with all I have with me. Carry it through, set it down lightly, there on the sideboard in the front room. Too fragile to look at. If you drop it you’re done for.
I remember, I forgot something important. Scry and scrape, but it’s illusive and gone. Will you help me find it?
*
This is a piece of free writing I did at a workshop I attended yesterday. We were tremendously lucky to have the poet and author Alan Spence lead the workshop - which was inspiring and thought provoking.
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