November day with overhung clouds, dismal grey on a diet of windswept trees, scant and scarce as winter begins. The icy lilaic pink sky peeks through sunrise, a kiss of the day ahead and at the bus stop, the branches sigh. Oh! What tales to tell.
A delayed bus is a delayed life. Broken down ambitions. Stalled and choked on the piston called life. A full circle race track and I am back, the tarmac eats its own tail.
The driver speeds full throttle or the equivalent, of an electric low emission bus. The chariot. Carrying those to the daily ritual and those who still chase the dream. The golden sun peeks through a slit between two clouds. The eye of Rah.
Foretold, I had my own pursuit of the philosophers stone, almost cracked my enigma code. Training to arrive at some destination, muddle through more like. Running through the threshold again, the uninvited guest. I neither jog, nor sprint, more of an involuntary propulsion. There is a strong case for stasis of the homeopathic kind. A steady study of what is, the bus timetable predicate, ordinary life astrology, head out of the stars and into a website, book, tablet of virtual stone.
The mason’s chisel upon 21st century materials. At the very least I am familiar here, in some scriptures the least is the most. This is what I know. This chapel of my familiar.
Winter, you are my sunrise, opaque and frozen. Cold as an exsanguinated heart. Even so, I keep you warm. The memory, the the idea, the ideal, because there are many years between us now, but still you haunt my thoughts, like unexpected faces in Halloween photographs.
I did very well not to drown whilst dunking for apples in that big river. I did very well to make it home, after asking for all those pennies. I didn’t give up, but my turnip face gave way to extraneous circumstances and a strange passive inability to assert my will.
Winter, you are my sunrise. I can make claim to this miracle upon miracle. All of what I know, I saw in your closed eyes, like a Stanley Kubrich scene. The blind vision of Halloween lanterns.
I shall find healing clay and press it on my wide open affliction and incant a prayer so you appear and say something like,
“Put the kettle on.”
And I will say something like,
“Of course, anything for the winter sunrise.”