After an office day at work:
the Team meeting;
and traffic slowed to a crawl
by temporary traffic lights;
I go for a walk.
I discover an evening of blue sky thinking
splashed with cotton white clouds
laced with dusky undertones.
Sparkling colours and darker shadows;
Bright green pastures amid golden brown tresses.
My elongated shadow pulls me upwards
acting the comic
ahead of me.
The glowing orb of the late August sun
is close to the horizon on the opposite hill.
I lift my face to catch the last warmth of its rays.
A dog yowls;
a responding bark;
Is that the clip clop of horses’s hooves?
Beyond, in the valley the drone of distant traffic
and a train siren sounds.
carried in the still air
People out of sight
At the foot of Stoodley Pike.
A soft breath caresses my upturned chin
As swallows flit and dart in zigzags around me
And I snatch the moment
It is over;
as I stride along London Road;
a narrow bridle path over the moors;
Claimed to be a major highway in the faraway past;
250 miles from our capital city.
Do all roads lead to London?
Now I bob among the tussocks
where rutted mud and water blocks my way.
My mobile jangles in my pocket
and I hurtle down the loose gravel lane
The aroma of curry from the house on the corner.
my stomach is rumbling;
I head home to make tea.
Julia Coughlan (August 2014)