Monthly Archives: November 2015

150: Tarmac

tarmac 150

In the bleakness of almost December I think back, I remember, as my skin cracks in the cold, those long summer days of melting heat, when I stretched too far for my own surface and ran liquid across the road. I think of the bicycle stands sinking slowly into the depths of tar, like maybe trapped dinosaurs once did, and of tyre tracks that span conglomerate up into the air, spitting back down like hot hail.

For the cold is here now causing me to huddle my black beauty around centres of strength, and the weak places split like an old man’s smile. Lined I am now by more than white apartheid borders, yellow forbidden zones and cats’ eyes down my spine. Are you on the left or right? Or do you travel a middle way? Whichever you are can you see that those on the other side are as right or left as you are? For the other is not always different, and the seasons pass, and the sun will warm my epidermis again, till I simmer with stickiness like a ready rice pudding, and sparkle in the sun.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

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149: Esplanade

esplanade

I sit, hugging my knees on the concrete, the hardness raw with discomfort. I am here but not here, not wanting to be part of the bustle that isobars around me and flows past in a stream of busy-ness. Unusual and so ignored, somebody-else’s problem hunched on the uncaring pavement.

They all pass in oblivious haste, but as I blink open teary eyes, I can just see, over the lip of the overflowing rubbish bins: a pebbled beach, and beyond that, a watery cobalt expanse that reaches to the sky and seeks out all the edges, that rocks back and forth just like I do, sounding like the breath of home.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

148: Treehouse

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A place for secret safe-keeping, looking down on the world and its scurrying antics. A cross-legged comic reading haunt. The desire to clamber up and find you always there, even now, grown and my climbing days bound up with the wheeled chariot. All the things we wanted to discover and did not find, even where they should have been, set on smooth wide branches crying out for a child-loving carpenter. Alas no sign. So instead the treehouse existed only in our imagination, much as it still does, sitting beneath a rug for a tent, or snuggled in a duvet, I know I gaze onwards through the dense woodland, breathe in the sweet, rot-tainted scent of fallen leaves. Even here, hermitted in a house of bricks, with my eyes shut, I own a telescope and a pirate flag, books and a box of treasures nestled in the corners, an altar in your limbs, plimsolled feet curtailed in the dust, and see further than ever before.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015