Category — MyPlace

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As I walked, I grew tired of taking photographs.

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Look, she said, at the colours that flash as I turn,
Reds, auburns, russets, golds

Breathe, she said, breathe the air that stops as I pass,
Soft, hushed, calm, electric

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A foolish quest, looking for colour on a grey day.
It wasn’t a day meant for colour and quests.

It was a day

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Yes, you read it right
The time is now
The moment, here.
No arguing
With the telling of this time:
It’s set in stone.

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Suburban streets

Quiet roads

Straightforward houses

People going about their work

And minding their business

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There’s the promise of at least a few hours sunshine so I head out to Whiting Bay and walk to King’s Cross. It’s a multi-tasking walk, as I’m trying out a writing challenge too. Look for a colour as you walk, then write the colour.

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The door opens onto a farmyard. Hens roam by the door, waiting for food. The yard is muddy, marked by the turning circle of my car. In front of the barn is the big house, the old white house with black painted frames, one of those Arran houses that sits in my imagination, waiting for me.

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It was a grey old day today. Grey skies. Grey, foreboding seas. Grey mist. Grey waterlogged land.

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The wind dominates.

My landlord is waiting for the bus, a hopeful trip to the Ferry terminal, to see if the boat is running. In the Co-op, neighbours discuss the speed of the wind. There’s a discussion about speed and directions, and what it means for the running of the boat.

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