Monday, 5 November 2018

Round 45.


This van doesn’t move; though once it did.

Today it stands in a corner of a garden, next to a field alongside the house. I live in the house in the wintertime; I live in the van at others.

Today the air smells of apple, they lie in random piles amongst the grass, which is damp from the night’s rain.

Leaves scatter the floor.

The rain is falling now, and on metal roof the sounds of its touch are comforting.


The bed where I lie creaks as I fold myself closer into the covers.

Here it is warm, still summer, but I would be happy if the van was still able to move.

In an hour I would drive along the track and wait for you at the crossroads.

Then we would head south where the autumn is only a slight thought at the edge of the evening.

We could stop in the mountains and eat figs.

Or reach the coast as night fell and fall asleep with the sound of the waves.

But this van doesn’t move.

Though once, it did.

No comments: