1 September 2019

The Journal

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

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