Garry Stork

In October

In October,
     the dreams come back with the apples red and bitter from being held in Summerís branches, your breath smells of brandy and old cigarettes, there are holes in the knees of your jeans, the first of a series of animal carcasses turns cold like the rusting spokes of a funfair ride, you are always packing, forgetting, being chased, falling. Caught in a strangerís house with your trousers round your ankles.

In October,
     the clocks go back an hour, so you are left with the illusion of more time, the trees turn into watercolours, the birds begin to hide or migrate, you try to warm yourself with black coffee, frying mushrooms with bacon on a Sunday, you watch the cartoons in the morning and feel guiltless as a bishop counting sheep.

In October,
     the hair on your face grows quicker, there is more white, but no softness yet, no old manís fern to keep death away, a wildness is re-introduced, the wolfpacks hunt for rats in your face, the wrinkles deeper, the dark lines more persistent, slower to wake up as to fall asleep.

In October,
     you believe in fairytales like you believe that Christmas will come soon, caramelised light, shed petals, ornaments turning with the snowflakes, there once was a  man who lived by the river, he was old and foolish and all of a-quiver, how winter begins, how the hours ascend like music.
 
 
 
 

© Garry Stork, 2001
 

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