It\u2019s been like this for six months, or maybe a month.
\nLess than drizzle, more than a shower.
\nConsistent at least. Sitting at the window,
\non a new estate, behind thin curtains,
\nlooking out over a running street.
\nWatching it come down, ceaseless, endless,
\nmorning to night. A chance to stay in,
\nwarm, snug, cosseted, believing .<\/p>\n
Weather eye on the world, three streets down.
\nSafe from the terror, of the old life.
\nA chance book, tea, gas fire, fifty p in the meter.
\nAvoiding learning, spend a day in a couple of hours.
\nSometimes though, lethargy overcomes, overwhelms,
\nto the point where you have to move.<\/p>\n
Big boots, jumpers, waterproofs, of a sort.
\nDrive out to the moors, park up.
\nA randomised route, to a gutty slog,
\nthrough running, ruining, mud.
\nSoaked from the knees down,
\ndamp from the neck down.
\nBlown to bits,\u00a0 laughting at the exposure.
\nRevelling in the there, then.
\nTo reach an underwhelming tor,
\ndamp granite, no view.<\/p>\n
Scratch around for a box, then to turn around.
\nSometimes organised, a flask of tea at the car.
\nTurn in against the wind, and wind the window down.
\nAn alternative view, of the same state of play.
\nBack out even, a glutton for meaning,
\nhoping for something.
\nBut nothing more than this.<\/p>\n
Other times,a book of poems,
\nparked on the Hoe, pretentious, pretending.
\nLooking out to sea, lost in the mizzle.
\nWipers blatter, the car a heated fug.
\nShe was there one day.
\nBack to the house, there, the warm girl,
\nwith needs.
\nMade it all seem so perfect.<\/p>\n
These were the times for me,
\nthis was awakening. So entrenched, embedded,
\nso much a part of me.
\nThat even now, on the other side of the world,
\nthirty years away.
\nOutside the office window,
\nof a sallow Sunday shift.
\nA thin drizzle against the pane,
\ncan take me back there in an instant.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cBut the point of this story, it is has a point, and the culmination of the whole incident and the thing that has made it stay in my memory when so much else has faded, was climbing into that top corner of the three-tier bunkhouse, close under the sloping dry timbers of the roof, to be cradled in the total luxury of dry blankets, and to hear the rain furiously pattering and hissing on the slates a few inches above me. I was at one with all animals, in all dens, all over the world.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n It\u2019s been like this for six months, or maybe a month. Less than drizzle, more than a shower. Consistent at least. Sitting at the window, on a new estate, behind thin curtains, looking out over a running street. Watching it … Continue reading \u00a0<\/em>Tom Price.<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"