It's Still Life

First Thing This Morning

It’s like a car crash. You don’t have to see it happen, to know that it did — the sight of glass, shattered fine as seashells, bits stretched across the road, and tyre tracks left as a dark memory where it stopped, rested at the base of an old lamp post. It was like that, a car crash; you didn’t see it, but knew it happened – the grass covered with white feathers, sprinkled like bright glass across the lawn, some caught on a breeze in silent tumble and shuffle between rattling traffic. But no bird to been seen. Probably towed off by a cat. Odd how soon we forget a car crash when the car’s not ours.

White frantic feathers
Tempest in a gorgon’s mouth
Another car crash

written for Sunday Whirl 247. Words: forget stretch rest left hole lost sight first shell feathers rattle old