Six on a March morning. Avenues and parks asleep. A streetlight reminds
us of colour: red gumtrees, white-yellows of tall grass. Along the beaten track
two joggers emerge quietly from darkness and, their brief existence in full
view, like figures in a classical story, they return into darkness beyond the
precinct of the lamppost. They are jogging the memory. I must keep the blood
flowing. I must improve myself. Day is cyclopean appointments, herculean
assignments, mercurial errands. Don’t jog me about the deadline! Age pushes
their feet forward, casually but insistently. Day jogs their elbow gently and
fires up again.
No comments:
Post a Comment