Lying on my back, looking up at a bruised sky.  Jeans deep in daisies and weeds, my hands are bubbling white with nettle stings.  An autumn sun wheezes on my skin with the last remnants of summer before She disappears to hibernate on the other side of the world, and we are all left in the icy vacuum of winter.

I’m horizontal on five thousand years of dirt, thinking about a lot of things; Smarties knickers, lip piercings, Primal Scream, knee socks, System Of A Down, geography books, graffiti.  I’m keeping an eye on the old soak with fists like a pair of crushed cars who sits on a nearby bench, cursing the world and everything in it.  As I lay, thinking I’m detached from reality, a thought occurs.  I’m included in his madness.  Therefore, it’d be wise to not get my pretty little face smashed in.  It’s all I have.

Holding my hands up to the sun, the webs in my fingers glow orange.  Low clouds sweep past, observant.  Looking up, I know that they are just collections of water crystals frozen by their high altitude.  But another part of me recognises lumps and shapes from my childhood; trains and dolphins that float overhead as if returning from a former memory.  Ever in flux, ever recognisable, these clouds aren’t random but emissaries who pass by in our lives, making sure we are doing well.  I want to ride with them.

My mistress is the sky, but I cannot reach.

Author: jimmicampkin

Writer and photographer (and occasional other things) currently living in the North East of England. Everything is my own unless otherwise stated. So blame me.

One thought on “Glorious”

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