Machynlleth 1982
Bodies are burning their oil lamps brightly
from the windows overlooking the church
their silhouettes shape-shift on the bedroom walls
as they move from room to room,
neither stand still long enough for you
to grasp who or what they are,
televisions flicker in accord
as if planned in some way, it’s strangely romantic
as if part of a passion play – and I am the only one here to watch
condensation gathers on peeling window frames,
Jack Frosts fingerprints pressed firmly against the pane
and with these seasons turning like pages
he’d better count his blessings
he’s not swiftly removed by morning.
It’s as if we return back to the dark ages
when the clocks go forward the hour,
now it really feels like winter,
I can feel her splinter pushing deeper and deeper
through my neck and feet, my hands are numb
as I cup them to my mouth and exhale to warm my noise,
a gust of wind strips the blanket white
that rests upon the hedgerow
Christmas is only a week away
and these streets are all so familiar,
reminiscent of Machynlleth, back in the day,
the town was buried under 10ft of snowfall
the year was 1982, I was still in middle school.
Hugh
Sat 15th Mar 2025 19:34
Da iawn😀