by Graham Stone
Echo of conversation
Forms of faces
Emerging from the fleshy red.
Scenery, childhood, green, trees
Faces, people, they do not belong in this time
I knew them not then, no matter,
We run, we play, they speak but I do not comprehend.
Motion… stairs, dirty grey, concrete stairs, ,
And running up, up… dusty rusted rail
Still voices, faces, none belong together,
Fleshy red, just one voice, blonde hair
Brown eyes, mouth moves but I do not see.
I here though, words now, repeated conversations
Wet cold Tarmac, familiar street, bare feet, lost, where’s my home?
This is familiar; I’ve done this before, I know, I can find my home…
“S’cuse me mate” lost… feet…. Flesh red ah,
I open my eyes; I’m on the train, bloke in front, talking to me?
‘This your stop? ’.
(inspired by the nice chap who thought i might've over slept)