Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The train almost left without them. They hurried into the closing gap between the sliding door and the damaged door frame. They pushed their two battered suitcases first into the already full corridor. And then squeezed on board.

She was heavily with child. Shawl over her head, hands crossed over her baby, already kicking, feeling her own stress inside. 

He was not used to the people and noise. She knew him already. Had already been spoken to, quietly, by the night watchers who told her it was true.

She looked at her husband as they squeezed down the crowded corridor. So young. Younger than her. Yet her betrothed. He was kind. Gentle. A computer software engineer of some repute in Kyiv. Now without a business. Without a home. Yet like her, with the most important message to take to the world.

She felt the message inside her. Hope being born in the life she carried within her. She smiled.

Josef looked for a seat for her. Asked the grey, worn, anguished passengers again and again. Pointed at her belly, begged with his hands, pleaded with his eyes.

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Caves 

There’s no doubt,

it’s December, 

in the North, 

a cave 

of darkness, 

hidden, 

the skies, 

blinded 

the stars, 

cover their faces, 

in shrouds 

of mists, 

invisible hands, 

from an earthly 

view, 

and below, 

far below, 

in the folds 

and valleys, 

the sinks 

and rises, 

of fields, 

forests,

rooftops, 

walls, 

shadows 

of gardens, 

time strikes 

in distant bells, 

chiming,

the days 

across 

slumbering 

lives,

as dawn 

slips between

the morning 

skies 

anew.

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The Glove (3)

She sighed. Clutched the single glove tight in her hand. A fortieth birthday present from her mother. She loved the tight, flexible fit, and the way her engagement ring pressed through and created a crown of creases that everyone could see who looked at her hands, even in winter, that it was something special. She sighed a second time.

The carriage was warm. 

Too warm. 

And silent. 

A few people stood and pretended not to look at her. A few peered shortsightedly at their mobile phones, some tried to sleep as the carriage rocked and rattled from side to side. Others read crushed newspapers, greasy books or peered like her into the middle distances of hope, dreams and the coming tasks of the day.

She always felt self conscious. She was taller than average. Her fine features, her open eyes, naturally raised eyebrows, and long light brown hair, made her something special to the local people in the community she had moved to as a younger woman: most people were smaller, sturdier with rounded earth like features: clearly she was from somewhere else.If not exotic, then for sure different from around here.

The different stations passed her by, the familiar names, sliding doors, the flow of passengers in and out of the yellow bubble of anonymous warmth and suspension  of time just habits of movement. Unremarkable and unworthy even to note as she slipped into memories and loss, dreams and hopes as she came closer to her destination.

Something bothered her. She felt it. It grew as she got closer to her ,Haltestelle‘ her place of stopping. As if she was being scrutinised. She looked around her. Everyone was self absorbed. Noise was looking at her. That in itself was unusual. But it was not that at all. Almost a premonition.

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Something

Something 

is waiting, 

it may be 

in the silence, 

the unbroken  

grey 

of sky, 

or the call

and cry 

of a single 

freedom bird, 

lost

in the confusions,

in the government

of trees,

but something 

is waiting, 

unbroken, 

alone

and standing

in the sunlight, 

leaves 

of modernity

and media 

fragile,  

resting, 

wearily,

on the shoulders 

of this

slow passing 

darkness

of night,

for something

is here

in the dawn 

falling 

in white feathers 

of whispers, 

waiting, 

in the trees,

empty 

of love

empty

of light, 

something 

is waiting

to be 

and discovered,

deeper

in the shadows, 

through 

the longest hours 

of the shortest day, 

behind

the pressing 

steel,

the dying 

of ideas

and territories, 

beneath

the first rain

of political doubt

from a barren

forgetfulness

of sky,

something 

is here, 

eating life

from our

own hands,

and freedoms

in the darkness,

waiting

and waiting,

for hate 

he builds

slowly, 

so slowly,

unobserved,

his branches

of cages,

stealing hope

from truth

digging holes

for bones

the deaths 

of ideas,

the sweetness

of decay,

and democracy.

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(Simply) Gone Away

Hard to believe, 

summer’s gone 

away, 

took up her hat 

and left us,

stealing our time 

from memories,

- and yesterday, 

for I waited 

so long, 

dreamed for spring, 

but then May 

had left the blue, 

the Spring promise 

of skies, 

and soon,

t’was September 

then October, 

and her 

longer goodbyes, 

for the leaves 

had already fallen, 

their trees standing 

bare, 

for life, 

how you left me,

standing 

beside me,

missing you 

and the sun‘s

waterfalls 

and wings,

blowing through 

your forget-me-knot  

hair.

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Somewhere 

there’s a dawn 

today hidden 

in the great black sack 

of morning darkness, 

So I’ll reach up 

to where the moon 

should be, 

find it, 

hold it, 

pull it down, 

release the stars, 

flood the dawn 

with a million candles 

of morning light 

to  remind the day 

to be.

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In the hidden dawn, 

across the fields 

the hanging December 

darkness, 

a single Christmas tree 

still and silent stands

between the tilled earth 

and the empty stars 

of sky, 

in colours 

of light and hope, 

it glows and tingles, 

shimmering in the twilight 

invisible upon the borders 

and governments, 

the negotiated settlements 

the half-bombed houses 

and the wrecked beliefs 

and dreams 

of war torn towns, 

For it is 

but a single crown 

of branches,

a symbol of unity,

from distant times

and lands, 

But today,

lost in the cold 

and empty morning wind

our diplomats 

and kings 

with ideologies blind

and dumb, 

piss upon 

their own legs

in the darkness 

gathering.  

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She wrote to me 

a letter today, 

came in the post, 

it’s been such along time 

since she passed 

through this way, 

I spent the day 

wondering 

if I should open it, 

just to find out 

for sure, 

I was peeling back 

the envelope 

when I heard the knock 

upon the front door, 

I left the letter 

on the table, 

walked down 

the empty hall, 

passed by photographs 

of her face, 

the memories 

of loves, 

lives 

and other times

that  I can still recall, 

then I unlatched the moment, 

heart thumping 

in my chest, 

left my darkness 

and stepped outside, 

and there she was, 

standing, 

smiling, 

in forgotten 

question marks, 

I held her close, 

and closer still, 

forgot to remember

 why she left me, 

smelled her hair, 

her perfume, 

stared long 

in her eyes, 

whispered sorry 

to the past, 

the pain, 

the anger, 

the farewells 

and goodbyes,

But I know 

the letter lies,

unopened,

upon the table, 

it is so long 

since 

you left this place, 

since you went 

away, 

since I thought  

you were coming 

coming back home again, 

I’m still left

calling your name, 

wishing for what was 

once,

yesterday… 

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The Flood

A flood 

of darkness, 

hidden 

between 

the earth,

and a paling 

morning 

with trees 

leafless, 

fallen,

glimpses

in blinking 

puddles, 

for empty 

of stars, 

is this late 

November sky, 

and through

and above, 

the clouds 

an invisible race 

in ships, 

through sails, 

the wind 

whispers,

across heavens,  

the wings 

of day 

arising,

as the hours

fleetingly,

hauntingly,

in reflection,

hurry on by 

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The Glove. Chapter 2

1.

The tram was approaching now. A shout of metal. A blast of air. It stopped a little before her. A clatter of doors and hurrying people pushing and shuffling into the smiling toothless gap left by the opening doors that hissed to one side.

Unthinkingly, she gripped the umbrella with both hands. Shook it, closed it and was the last to step into the crowded bubble of light and warmth.

It was only after the doors closed, after the juddering hesitating motion forward, that she realised she was holding one glove. She glanced through her reflection in the window and saw the other,  flat, fallen, in a puddle of darkness in the pouring morning rain.

2.

He was late that morning. A rush of children, occupied bathrooms, breakfast and the delivery which was as unexpected as it was early.

He saw them off. Rucksacks, lunches, mobile phones and a reminder that he would be later home that evening. He swept the garage back, bundled his case and coat in the boot, slammed it down to feel better and unlocked the car door.

The car still smelled of pizza from the take-way last night. He reversed out, opening all the windows at the same time. The ancient dodge coughing and spluttering its leaded petrol fumes all over the neighbours immaculate garden. He smiled. Mischievously. He opened the door and closed the garage with a rusty echoing clang that undoubtedly woke the mice camped out for the winter in the old packing boxes still full of his dead wife’s winter coats and jackets.

He stopped. Ruefully rubbed his two day beard, and was about to think of her again when he saw the neighbour’s opposite open their electric blinds, thought better of it and tucked himself back into the low leather drivers seat, slipped into gear and peering into the thinning darkness, drove to join the queues of other cars all turning left against the flow of traffic.

He indicated right. Smiled, and thought again of Eveline.

It was colder this morning. He closed the windows. Turned up the whining heater to full and pressed the old radio cassette player knob with a resounding click.

The music immediately filled the car with an accompanying cackle and crack of hissing and then settled into some old ‘70s disco number that reminded him of the cheapness of emotions. It passed the time, the three minute dash to the country station.

The road descended in a series of switchbacks, the morning sun peering, blurred and weaving through a forest empty of leaves.

He smiled. The second time that morning. He liked November. Most of the world tucked away in coats, hats, and gloves or packed in shopping malls or simply holed up at home.

The world seemed emptier somehow. And that suited him just fine. 

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