Spring: run

Published by Si on

A prologue, of sorts. In these interesting times, a vignette of memory from a couple of years ago. It would be wonderful to be as full of love and laughter as those two ladies who shared a good few years of life well lived.

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Spring.

Blackthorn in flower and hawthorn in leaf and oak in bud.
But.
 There’s a scrag end of winter storm blowing through,
                                                   shedding the fell weather it carries.

           Yet still,
                                 the wide moors are calling.

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Start, of a sort;
empty station, platform pasted with sleet.
           Did I lock my front door?  Did I?  Did I? Course I did …

Train arrives, hangs around a while,                       
                      southbound express passes,
                                                                          train leaves

Clackety-clack and stop and start into town,
 straphanging snooze –
            “Let fowk off, ‘an then tha’ ‘n ger’ on”
            “Move down the carriage please”
                     “Thankyou for travelling with us next stop …

straphanging snooze – <br>

                  … Sheffield.” 
Crowded station, all buzz and bustle.
                                    Course I locked the door.

Cross the road, espresso to go; brain reset.

Pond Street.                                         Wait.
           Wind, four degrees and the fragmentary blatter of sleety hail.
Cold shuffle dance in the unshelter for the 65
                                       running late;
                                                                              – the 272, running later.
Two ladies on a jolly board first –
                                       “Ta luv. It’s a nice ride wi’ us owd folk pass; let’s bagsy upstairs May”
                                       “Tha’s still as daft as when we wur thirteen Jenny”
                                       “Aye well, while we can my love, while we can”

                                                                                                                     laughter enfolds them.

Wind, four degrees and the fragmentary blatter of sleety hail. <br>

Travelcard beeps, find a seat.

           Town –

passes –              

           suburbs –

pass –            

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bus too warm, steamy window staring

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           moorland –

arrives –                       

 

 – shit, my stop                  scamper!

fell shoes grip on the snow painted moor,  <br>

            Fell shoes skate on sleetslick asphalt, 
            spray shrouded truck thunders by to who cares where.
            Long familiar path leads up –
            fell shoes grip on the snow painted moor,
            breath comes easy.

           For the here and the now, life is simple.

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Be well, and be wonderful to each other my dears.


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