December Mornings

Of course, our eyes are cast towards the approaching Christmas festival, but here, on the edges, it doesn’t have the feel of something building. Instead, there is a lazy, languid, gait to our journey, mellow and hazy, the yellows of half-light.

We are in an urban prelude, an introduction to theme.

State Of Decay

In the wake of the morning school run, I called into the local McDonald’s. Armed with a hot coffee, I went upstairs for extra warmth. It’s that time of year when being comfortable is a question of degree. Literally.

I had the room to myself, and, through a rectangle of light, I could see yellowing leaves outside clinging desperately to trees, only a storm’s breath away from relinquishing their grip forever.

The sky was blue but soon to concede to cloud.

Here, everything was in decay.

It wasn’t just those leaves on the trees; the music coming out of the speaker above me was already out of vogue; that very moment was passing into memory, present tense to past, and I was a machine that through wear and tear would at some point begin to break down. At a cellular level it was already underway, as I was sat there, an heir to debt and degeneration, just a storm’s breath away from relinquishing my grip.

Musings At A Bus Stop

Shelter. That’s maybe all man has ever wanted. Shelter; warmth; food.

I’m huddled beneath a bus stop in what I regard the centre of my town. It’s not the town centre, so to speak, maybe not even the exact geographical centre, but historically, and spiritually, I think it’s the centre.

And even spiritual centres have bus stops.

A heavy rain has swept in from the coast, tail-end of a hurricane, no less, and I’m here, having emerged from the warmth of the library, watching a river of litter and leaves pass by on their mission to clog the drains.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I’m waiting for a bus. I’m stood at a bus stop, after all. But no, I’m waiting for my wife to pick me up, this was just the nearest spot to stand out of the rain. I hope a bus doesn’t arrive, that would be awkward.

Have you ever seen children in a supermarket? Young children, I mean. If there is one walking down the aisle, say with his or her Mum, and another child turns into the aisle, they stand there checking each other out. A bit like dogs do. Without the sniffing, of course. Neither smiling nor speaking, they just stand there, sizing each other up.

I’m not sure why I’m thinking about this now, it’s not like I’ve even been to the supermarket, but anyhow, here’s my wife, pulling up, windscreen wipers going ten to the dozen.

No Man’s Land; No Man Knows

And still, the no man’s land between summer and autumn.

The green foliage hangs heavy, but the odd leaf is beginning to turn.

What’s a guy to do, when travelling to watch a local non-league team?

The sun is still there, but sinking, diluted.

Is it too warm for a coat, or too cold for a jumper?

Just bring on winter and we’ll all know where we stand.

Spider Webs

From my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Spider Webs

A paucity of lines 
to begin with,

held by examples 
of faith
unattached
to a creed,

forming into white,
frosted webs,
rising to be
a tangle of sky,

prone to bead
on dew-dusted mornings,

each tremulous
strand

born of hunger
and longing.





©AndrewJamesMurray

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