Daily missive Monday the 4th of November to Thursday the 7th

It belonged to somebody else

Locked in the past.

And the retching,

wretchedness

was all he was now.

 

 

 

Daily missive for Wednesday the 6th of November.

 

Even as her hands lie.

A slight tremor in sleeping.

A twitch of a finger.

The gentle rise and fall.

 

Freckles jostle together,

dancing to their own tune.

A silken smooth

delicate skin

 

So familiar

but wrapped in mystery.

Keeper of my soul.

The one to keep me whole.

 

She smiles in sleep.

Fiery red hair escapes.

A strand across her face.

It is caressed in place

with the flick of a finger

and she breathes,

 a gentle sigh.

 

As sleep recedes

and she emerges into the world

gossamer unfurled,

it becomes a brighter day.

And in the light play

as she brushes her hair

I see the depth of her.

 

She is the radiance.

The sparkle and the dance.

 The music I hear.

The words that I write.

She is the life I live.

And for her I give

all that I have

and more.

To spend my days

With her in my life.

Her hopes.

Her dreams.

My wife.

 

 

Daily missive for Thursday the 7th of November

 

Hoxton gentrification.

 

Old tyres,

 worn by years of travel

Bounce

 in and out of water filled pot holes.

Forklifting.

Muck raking.

And the grind of heavy machinery

Puffing

and wheezing in the dark,

keeps even the weariest of souls awake.

 

Sleeping

was always a problem

once the quiet places were taken.

Stragglers

took what they could.

And outside the old print shop,

wedged into a corner,

out of sight,

behind a stack of pallets,

six men lay,

covered in old newspapers.

 

Yesterday

 the news covered their plight.

It still did.

And nothing changed.

 

Only the headlines.

Fighting the urge to cough

Sickly men lay side by side.

In columns.

Waiting for the right of reply

it never comes.

And still they lie

waiting to die.

As life goes on.

 

Just yards away

the moneyed people play.

Cheek by jowl

With the filth and foul.

The simple souls

The ugly trolls.

The work shy

and the feckless,

who remain stubbornly resilient

to change.

 

Life is strange.

When you get the chance

to consider it.

Bottom’s up.