A RETURN TO SOCKS
it’s morning, and I hear
the train down in the valley.
no clickety-clack or pull
from a long whistle.
we’re electrified.
it’s the sound of speed
slicing air that I hear,
morning, noon, and
night, until my ears
hummm with sleep.
fill with the sounds
of dreams. as a child
I had a reoccurring
nightmare – thanks
to a Baptist preacher
who told us that the
dead shall rise. popping
up to me like sprung
rats from mouse traps.
helium engorged balloons.
I say my prayers every
night, thankful for my
blessings, for family,
but I’m cautious of
Baptist preachers.
but as I said, it’s morning.
leaves are falling, sunlight
drizzles through trees, and
I’m wearing socks again.
it’s 1st September.
©️ Misky 2019, West Sussex, 16°C, cool but sunny
It's Still Life 