Hiraeth Series 28-30
28 One street light still lit, the dusty clock face ticks eight o'clock in the morning. One fly prays amidst my bread crumbs as if it is the epiphany, crack of ray in this gloomy and cluttered day, and on my table beside the cup and the plate, beside the drained coffee and the deconstructed loaf sits a now formatted laptop. I wonder if some cache memories remain etched in the eternity. Yet. 29 Clouds roll the clpds of early light Everything, I feel, a bit clotted. Even the breathing. I ponder over the medical terms for this ailment. This is between the drafts of my self-help book 'Gain Humour, Ease Into Dying'. Wind reveals some new shades of red on the branches. This tree, so typically tropical, wears red for the new birth and red for the death. 30 The wires running by the Highway slices the loaves of clouds. Light is better today When I drive I prefer silence. Hush, roadkill. Do not talk backseat. Turn off the music. And yet why does my childhood sit behind the wheel? Honk. Honk. Who are you in a red shirt sweeping autumn? I drive past you, and you wave as if passing is one wave, one of many tiny triangles. Not one marks the shore. Tired light drives the planet.