January 1st – 7th

IMG_5196

January 1st

A wash of grey cloud
shrouds the city
Backlit by the weak
January sun.
A smattering of people
shuffle through the deserted streets.
Washed-out.
Ambivalent.
Hungover.

New resolutions
made with so much purpose
now pushed aside;
On the back-burner.

The street lies empty
blazing orange against the grey-washed skies.
Darkened windows
gape onto the wet cobbles
Watching
Waiting.

Rows and rows
of terraces
stretch,
Neat and regimented
into the distance.
Perched precariously
against the tangerine walls
an assortment of bikes
Balance.

Through the pallid veil
a spear of sunlight
Escapes.

Far beneath, the cobblestones
glisten and gleam
with a strange bluish glow.

Happy New Year.

IMG_5268.JPG

January 2nd

The air bites shrewdly,
gnawing at the grey water
which churns and
bubbles
in brown eddies
encircling the stern fortress.

The air bites shrewdly,

hacking and tearing
at the delicate spires
peeking above the

unyielding battlements.

The air bites shrewdly,

whipping the sea-spray against the windows,
bombarding the doors,

driving the visitors backwards.

The air bites shrewdly,

as invulnerable as the ghost

that haunts the battlements.

IMG_5286.JPG

January 3rd

A canopy of clouds

dense
heavy
thickens with every tick tock

of the clock.

The city beneath

slowly

crushed.

lower
lower
lower

Shards of the dying sun burn

through.
Ripping through the cloud
like a photograph
left in the light
too long.

Ruined. Devoid of beauty.

Silhouetted by the flames,

industrial towers
line the skyline,
belching their fumes

and smoke into the air.

Glass structures border the river,
their surfaces a refraction
of fire.

 

IMG_5288.JPG

January 4th

Garish globes

glimmer and glow.
An array of colours
sparkle in the January dusk

suspended above the busy streets.

Beneath, crowds bustle,

the cacophony of conversation

thickening the crisp evening air.

Laughter floats skywards,

rising above the hum of engines

and blare of horns.

IMG_5289.JPG

January 5th

And so they came to see him,

the newborn king.

Many moons ago,

those three men have multiplied
into crowds of thousands.
– Heaving. –
One body.
The parade appears:
An explosion of colours and noise.

Joyful, joyful.

 

January 6th

The long nocturnal hours with a thousand sinister thoughts until at last, at last morning came, then once again the long days, then once again the sleepless night. – Edvard Munch.

Fear. Loathing. Panic.

Silence has blanketed the night,
muffled the life of the outside world.
Inside, nothing moves
save for the gentle ticking of the clock
and the low hum of the fridge.
Coccooned in blankets,
I lie and wait

for Morpheus’s sweet embrace.

Oblivion eludes me.

The minutes tick by,
growing louder and
 louder
until
they have crescendoed into a
hammering,
thumping,

relentless Drumming.

Sleep will come. It has to.

But for now,
I lie and

wait.

January 7th

Metro, boulot, dodo.

Alarm blasts
sleep
to the farthest

reaches of the room.

Toiletry is a stumbled,

fumbled affair.

Staring into space,

crushed,
jostled,
hurtling underground
in a cramped metal box.
Coffee helps.
The stagger becomes
a slouch.
Clock in.
8 hours until I can return to

the nest.