Mummified works in the back of the car. A head not bothered with the whys anymore. It was sunny. Blowing blue smoke at the windscreen for fun. Seeing shapes in it. Watching the road being devoured by the hungry machine. Sun stomp on the tarmac, on the grass, through the trees. So, heaven issued a new album. Makes it difficult to listen to anything else. Flowers spring and glide; mid-air, as though they have minds of their own. Smiles, pain, dying summer. Good, old heartbeat. Still ticking over, you son of a gun. Blinking at road signs. At passengers. At that face that looks back. But look, doesn’t it seem as though the warm season is waking up again? Summer insomnia? Just can’t get back to bed. Down with the tangy, brown leaves and dead birds. Dewy mornings. Paper rounds. Inky fingers. Cups of tea. Sealed eyelids.
New sun. Fresh gaze. Hundreds of toffee apples dangling from the ceiling. Classical music in the mind. The figure at the door. And open basket containing fresh rolls, butter and jam. The berries bursting in the pinch of love.
A dogs splashes into the river. Hard though it is to tell, it seems to me like it’s smiling.