Monday, 5 January 2009

Yellow bands of longitude

The snowy pavement holds the chops and hacks of early feet and the drag of a reluctant school bag wanting a different kind of day. Cars are brushed blind, a pompom tops every railing spike, the black centre of the road is combed slick and shining, gritty with pink salt to gnaw at tyres.

No sledges go by. No tea trays. Just the strange uneven walks of unsure feet.

I like looking down on the pink edge to the light as it hits an ice-bound country, surrounded by an inky black sea. On a monochrome map, crossed by the crooked dancing trail of a blackbird path, the cut of two yellow bands of longitude go underground when they reach the shore. 

It will all be gone by lunchtime.