Walking Towards the Viaduct
Jan. 2nd, 2005 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
squirmeliaBrother, shadowing, walks past the trickling layer of ice outside the house and spins the words from his dreams, words of doubt, that tell me I look European. (I am European). The sun is low in the sky and bright, and our mother is in front of us. She explains that her feet are not cold, even though she is only wearing sandals.
Roadside puddles of smashed up glass fester on the country lane that leads to the viaduct. Old man’s beard, slightly green, as if tangled with moss, hangs from the hills. I drape the frail strands across my fingers, but am unable to feel it to start with, as if I were touching only the air, but then my fingers thaw and feel the softness.
On the river, the pair of cygnets look muddy, and float by, not looking at all where they are going. As we walk on further, someone notices that every tree in the field full of brown bulls has a fence around it, all the trees are safe.
The shape of fallen leaves is emphasised, crystallised, but the blades of grass, still growing, look so brittle covered in frost that my brother says he is surprised they do not crunch and break.
My mum is the first to whoop underneath the viaduct, hearing the echoes, as my brother tries once again to estimate the number of bricks.
Roadside puddles of smashed up glass fester on the country lane that leads to the viaduct. Old man’s beard, slightly green, as if tangled with moss, hangs from the hills. I drape the frail strands across my fingers, but am unable to feel it to start with, as if I were touching only the air, but then my fingers thaw and feel the softness.
On the river, the pair of cygnets look muddy, and float by, not looking at all where they are going. As we walk on further, someone notices that every tree in the field full of brown bulls has a fence around it, all the trees are safe.
The shape of fallen leaves is emphasised, crystallised, but the blades of grass, still growing, look so brittle covered in frost that my brother says he is surprised they do not crunch and break.
My mum is the first to whoop underneath the viaduct, hearing the echoes, as my brother tries once again to estimate the number of bricks.
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