Tag Archives: walking

Night shuffle

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Play.

I did not mean to walk your streets tonight, but I did. I walked past your defences, your missing kind, your barely hidden happiness, as someone held me and helped me up.

Skip.

Walls of colour, from A to H, spread themselves before me, leading to hues of pink, gold, oxidized bronze. Your trees hold twinkling fruits, and I still don’t know how to be alone.

Skip.

No silver, no wick, no weaving. The flint is still there, stubborn and content. Glint of glass walls further to one side, no one reading, seasons change, people fall, hearts beat.

Skip.

Is there something I should know? Hall after hall you still keep secrets, even in the open, hardly hidden, standing tall in stone and tar. Bridges need crossing.

Skip.

Before the other side, some of your plainness shows, and still manages to pluck, softly, strings that had settled, gently. You’re the lucky one, you caused it.

Skip.

Orion, inevitably on your sky. Fairy lights, also inevitably, on your skyline. Friends intermittently on your roads, this road. Some have come home, some on your back.

Skip.

It’s getting cold. I’m getting cold. Walk with me some more, first. A ghost above me, pasts beside me, a door just ahead. Am I ever coming back for you..?

…skip.

(Bonus track: No words left after all that. Just step forward, right or wrong foot, doesn’t matter. Time to walk again. Time to set out and find the next one. I might be back.)

140story – Tryptich

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Story is complete, and summer has definitely gone.

NaPoWriMo Day 15 – Paralleli

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Ho camminato lungo il fiume, oggi.
L’ho tenuto sulla destra
a distanza di un braccio
e l’ho seguito, in silenzio.
Non ci ho parlato; d’altronde
uno è fiume e l’altro è uomo
una è acqua e l’altra è carne
uno è sassi e l’altro è ossa.

Con le dita ne ho seguito
il corso, tracciando il colle
al di là dell’altra riva,
percorrendo con lo sguardo
la vecchia giovinezza
della cima smussata;
ho sorriso, e mi sono passato
la mano fra i capelli.

Non ho camminato a lungo
non ne avevo il tempo.
Non l’ho seguito fino in fondo
non sono partito alla sorgente.
L’ho lasciato correre
tranquillo nel suo letto,
il fiume verso destra
io nel senso opposto
tornando verso casa.

Sides

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There is a square in the town
in the city where she lives
which isn’t.
It has three sides
of flagstone and brick
and then two more: an inside
and outside.
The inside feels, for all intents and purposes,
like flagstone and brick,
like sandstone and rock,
like concrete and mud.
The outside feels different.

There is a man on a bridge
in the city where she lives
who draws his life day after night
fighting the creatures on one side
and the other.
He knows the flagstone and brick
of the outside and inside
he knows the stars and sky.

There is a woman in a room
in a house in the city where she lives
who looks like a page from a book
but only for one day, one day in the year.
She knows the concrete and sweat
of the inside and outside
she knows the leather and print.

There is a book, there is a room
there is a bridge, there is a sky
They are the outside of the square
which is not a square in one
but multiple cities
of France of England of Morocco
and yet of brick and stone
and of stars and sky
of outside and of inside.

Tunnel

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She wasn’t claustrophobic, she just didn’t like the idea of the entirety of the Thames pressing down upon her head. Squeezing the tunnel, pushing at its round edges, clasping it in a slimy polluted cold grip. Still, all trains were delayed, too late for the ferry, walking was the only way across. She could hear someone else’s steps from below, it gave her courage. She headed not too quickly down the spiralling stairs, counting each step under her breath, and reached the beginning of the tunnel. She started to walk.

An overhead light flickered. As she stopped walking, so did the sound of footsteps from the other side of the tunnel. She noticed she had been alone for a while now. Alone, in dim light, in a tunnel under a river. She felt something gripping at her chest, and made to sprint toward the exit. A sudden gurgling sound startled her, making her stop. As she caught her breath again, she kept hearing the same, repetitive sound coming from somewhere above her. Panic quickly crept its way in as she realised what it was: the slow, regular drip of water, trickling in from the tunnel’s ceiling. She could no longer hear herself breathing, or her heart beating in her chest. All she could hear now was a soft, terrifying drip, drip, drip.