0038 | contrails

One day. The coat in the cupboard, with a rope of green polythene bags spilling from the left-hand pocket; bags for collecting the dog’s shit at the beginning and end of each day. | A tree, bare against a white sky, like a bony arm. A palm of twenty or so fingers sprawled open; leaves stripped and scattered, savaged once by the wind, then by foot, and then by the wind again. | A pigeon pecking at a pool of vomit in front of a bench: scavenging on the detritus of a story from the night before. | A tap left running; an even flow of water, hitting the steel sink almost without noise. | Lego pieces left on the floor beneath the small wooden table and chair; an empty pink plastic tumbler on the table. | Midnight, and the street in tones of burnt sienna; a compromise between the black blanket of sky and the amber lozenge of the street lamp below. Further on, the muted headlights of a car: life fading as a battery is drained.

Reader Comments

  1. My favorite line: “Midnight, and the street in tones of burnt sienna; a compromise between the black blanket of sky and the amber lozenge of the street lamp below.” There is so much compromise between the beauty and truth of a day.

    And even the pool of vomit has a poetry to it when you are the one writing sitting at the keyboard.

  2. Each line in this fragment is a vivid photograph, the colours and contours brought to life so brilliantly. I had to get up from my seat and clap for the last two lines; they are that superb. Thank you for this wonderful piece.

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