Saturday, 7 July 2012

Where The Reading Takes Me

Sunday. Cold outside. I have this doorstep of a book. It's got a crackled cover. Well-worn as if preparing my eyes for a well-organised journey. It's cold inside. Emotionally, warm. But this is a cold place. Chill winds, twisted trees. Lonely mists. Winter herds. Palpable muck in cow byres. Trudge of boots on cobbled yards. Wisps of straw trapped in ice.

In shapeless, well-worn trousers, he stands at his open door. There's nothing more he can do now. As an afterthought, he goes back inside. Dark furniture. Opens this drawer and that drawer. He knows it's here somewhere. Knows what he's doing is futile but doesn't know it not analysing it. It just helps, that's all: helps to keep moving.

A single snow flake falls. I put my hands on the radiator and feel its warmth spreading through my hands.


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