Shades of Blue – taster…

 

Time Left Her Waiting

Big Ben, an Icon. It stands proud in a special place. Tiny life has scampered like mice at it its feet. It is steeped in history, and the mystery? Some unfortunate folk see it, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing to them!

Big Ben stands tall like a grandfather from the fifties wearing smart brown trousers, waistcoat and pocket watch. Its face says it all…British resolve…British resolve…whatever the time…this slow to anger timepiece headmasters over us all.

Some folk line up themselves and search between high stone legs for the spirit of a summer solstice-their children blow on dandelion clocks and watch as seeds disappear toward a horizon. Hour glasses turn through one hundred and eighty degrees, a new life begins.

A man with a thin wrist watches over us it is said. A loving man, but despite my enquiring head, my naive Sunday school head, I simply can’t see him myself. But at puberty I read that a woman waits for time and the man in the moon jumps over her and seeds a womb and a spark produced me in my mothers egg.

And in these present circumstances my mind drifts as I lead her- a crusty shell by the hand.

A tortoise at the end of his pent up winter spring rests no more. It drags its rusty armour out into the sun and refuses to shine until its belly is full. Time chimes in the fish and chip shop but only in the stomach of the hungry. Inside my mother- something has diminished. She cannot order a fish, I point and she struggles to nod at a pie. I realise she is minus something, something averse to her well being is happening. She is slowly moving to the back of her head-to the back of the queue.

Earlier at the home, her arm links into mine, I carry her bag-she remains cognisance of the sequence of walking. Gradually we both gain momentum as we sway unsteadily down the long corridor-bedroom doors at each hand. Painted on the corridor walls are life size pictures of people dressed in varying styles of attire. There are painted window frames and pretend curtains, pleasing landscapes, a post box, brick walls, balconies, a dog. Every real door has the name of the occupant on it and a number, a sort of…

Copyright Steve Jones 2012©