A girl in a white shift hurries down the hill.
An urban fox scurries in the opposite direction.
A chill electric moon, blue becoming yellow,
then white,
As clouds fly over the surface of the stone.
The fox is grubby and grey, hardly a trace of red.
The silence is tangible - icy - hard - immovable,
A door through which only the dying pass.
The street lamps seem to wash away real colour,
fade the trees into flimsy ghosts.
This scene outside my first floor bedroom window
Reminds me of a film that has no sound.
I stand stock still.
I must fix the scene with plain words, not snapped
photos,
Fix the moment with black lines scrawled on paper.
I think of the people snoring in their warm beds,
Snuggled up safe and sound while I keep watch,
They will never quite believe what I am writing.
I am far too tired to rest, in thrall to the dark night,
To the realities that the bright sun cannot show us.
The white stone moon drifts like a surrogate god
Through deep immensities of unappeasable space.
When alarm clocks clang, this street will be dull, but
homely.
The girl will snack on her corn flakes. The fox will be
dreaming fox dreams.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 12th. - 13th. - February 7th. - 8th. - July 24th. 2021.
This is direct reporting of a scene I saw from my first floor bedroom window. The night was very cold but the girl was dressed only in a white slip. A scraggy fox passed warily by. The street lighting seemed to wash out the colours from the scene, except from the moon which seemed to be made up of three distinct, but very pale colours. I assume the girl ate cornflakes for breakfast.
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