relentless,
with an intermittent bassline of rumbles,
like a heavy-loaded washing machine on fast spin
or a three-litre BMW high-revving in a neighbouring driveway;
vibrations. Cacophony.
It dwells in the middle distance:
never so far and fuzzy as to be dismissible,
sometimes leaping towards you with a torn tattooed grimace;
taunting. Stalking.
It pulls your cheekbones up into your eyes,
a hazy film of tears blurs colours as in an artist's glass,
deep breaths stab you like a fell-runner hitting the wall.
Perspiration tickles.
Rain pours from the overloaded grey bucket of the sky,
into the grey bucket of the dirty gutter;
saturation. Headache.
It immobilises,
but you are conflicted anyway
between the momentary safety of a known pain
and the flight instinct;
stranded. Vulnerable.
Yet, it is manageable.
Closed eyes swab, reboot the view,
fire licks in the exhaust of pursed lips,
a fresh shower swills the stickiness and clouds,
talking neutralises an indigestion of the mind;
relieved. Onwards!
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
