I do not go
for walks in the morning, anymore-
an inky sky
turning crimson, and the wind caressing
my hair, lifting
yesterday’s leaves into tiny eddies, trees
waking up,
shaking off last night’s silver-
these leave
me cold.
Morning walks
are
conversations with oneself- feet meeting ground
soundlessly,
causing echoes in the heart, asking
questions
not understood, offering answers
not quite
asked for.
Mornings
now are cacophonies of abjurement- glossy
magazine
stories interspersed with food wrappers and old
newspapers,
plastic cups, cigarette stubs, the odd computer disk,
a purple Frisbee
chewed on by a dog: a loneliness hidden in bright
colours,
and discarded. All these stories;
a terminal
sadness, flaunted in
bold
renunciations- new things, new lives, new paths, accreted
over the
desiderata of previous lives. There is no peace in this.
Morning
walks
are painful
self-examinations.
