Ashes, the rain and I

Ashes, the rain and I.

Not as quick as I’d like to be, not so vigorous, knowing and understanding that my motor is running down but not accepting it. Oily fish and garlic might do the trick, beans pulses and rhetoric, saunas and brisk walks.

Having the appetite but not the stomach, having the desire but not the muscle. Rain blows in your face and the sun plays aging games and autographs your skin with the fine lines of experience.

Healing takes more time, scabs live a little longer on the dead skin, hacks and rubbed areas and abrasions, moles and spots to irritate and make a messy road map across your back.

Thin hair that doesn’t quick know how to behave despite its certificated age and is of no particular colour you’d recognise. White pepper and exposed patches from annoying patterns.

Having seen it all before you should know the script by now but are none the wiser. Ink stains masquerading as writings and signatures, dates and times and places where weeds grow well.

Peering into newspapers and books, all print is small print and the other drivers are all going too fast and taking risks I’d never take. You say.

Fiddling with things and packets that will neither open nor work. Designed and bar coded only to be sold, no real or actual use is ever intended. You’d have to be able to understand the instructions to do that.

Silly joyful giggles and looking back but finding things were not that funny and nobody really got the joke. What were we all laughing at in those black and white and mono days? The heads are down.

A thunderstorm breaks some where overhead and close by. I lay down, my face turned to the grey clouds and the white, bright rain. Water pounds my face and closed eyes, closed eyes remembering inside, the hurts are all healed now and the plots concluded and resolved. There was no conspiracy; there was no plan or twist. This is it, alone in the rain. The ashes. The way it should all be.