Fleet of foot, the fox slips over the brow of the hill road; body dark, eyes lit: a photographic negative. Boy misses it but we are in good time for his early bus.
He heads for London with a coach of arty students, two cheese sandwiches and a camera. (Return time: roughly midnight.)
The house is quiet, bar the thump of Dog's tail. Sleep is not calling. There is leftover coffee in a silver flask.
From the porch steps I see the sky lighten, the early cloud drift, the tree silhouettes still leafed, like dark lace; the oak reminds me of a Spanish shawl, a widow's dress.
-Imagine a widow in this breaking dawn light: the sun rising on such a different life.
Birds are piping shrill; traffic on the A30 flows, a constant churn.
The steps are cold: I have on a woollen coat, and flip-flops.
-All over the world, such changes are happening: seasons and circumstances. History seems a clumsy lurch: if we get to hold hands awhile, that is grace in a clumsy world. Good to be stoic but one must leave gaps: it's where hope can get in. All good armour needs a chink, if one is to be human, part of this perception curve.
Out of night, a landscape appears.


Lisa, this is a perfect example of why you are one of my favorite writers anywhere. Merci.
Suze said…
'Good to be stoic but one must leave gaps: it's where hope can get in.'

My eyes are watering. I just read this to my sister and husband and the three of us felt the appropriate quiet joy.
Lisa Southard said…
To be read with such appreciation is joyful and humbling. Reciprocity rocks, ladies, thank you xxx

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