Sunday, 13 December 2009


I knew it before I opened my eyes. Light was bouncing off the angles in the house where the sun never reaches. Opening the curtains, the morning roared in operatic, arms embracing the stage in pink and yellow beams that pushed away the white.


The urge is to be out. I'm pacing the room like a dog that hasn't had a run. I am there already as I drink my tea, eat some fruit, watch the clouds race each other away from the dawn.

I am there already as I run down the hill, hear the breaking of waves like breath across the odd rocking of crushed beer cans, past the splat of yesterday's strewn papers and the patient sweeping of wide brooms that mark their route with scratchy parallel lines.