I hear a knock on my window, and a gruff throat-clearing. Groggy I wipe my eyes a slide out of bed. Within 7 and a half minutes I’m in my grandpa’s car with my surfboard hitting me on the back of the head as its speared into the backseat. The sky is a blue-grey colour, you can still see stars speckled across it. It’s not light-out yet. We get to the beach and my grandpa, Baz pulls out his fishing rod and a cigarette, which with a grunt he sits down in the sand and lights. I sit down in the sand next to him with my wetsuit done up half way and watch, bleary-eyed while the waves roll slowly towards the shore and crash softly. I fall asleep to this sound every night, like a comforting whisper.
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Sitting in the back of maths class was touching. the french could subtract like the Americans. The Portugese could divide with the Chinese, and in every other native tongue, an arithmic equation could be done. In the time it took when i took a look at my thin white paper to add a sum, the girl beside me would scribble away and the teacher would tell us to be done. I could never describe how to divide, subtract or say my times tables. my teachers tried, my family cried, but I couldn't explain without any pain the fraction or percentage of ANY maths fable. The smell of freshly upturned soil A black dress, shoes and veil The smell was bitter, like burnt coffee. But sweet- like burning. Wood. Rain sounds upon the earth Like little feet. Grey and blue and pink, decaying quietly. Maybe a sound, a shuffle of Bone and wood, In the dark which is almost silent. The black and silver pearls of twilight, and rain falling down the leaves, making them bow their heads towards the procession. Why I like winter The dew drops on the grass in the morning. The freshly grown fungi-mushroom houses. The density of green. The fresh smell of rain Soaking everything in a cleansing spell. The rich, brown tree bark The bright green leaves. The sounds of the morning lark The mower man on his knees The gentle sounds of children, And birds and dogs and bees- Who frolick in the sunshine And frolick when it leaves. The puddles splash The twigs snap And the leaves have turned to mush. Here comes the man to rake them up To the songs of the frogs in the bush. Is it weird that I'm up waiting for you to come home? Sitting with the t.v blaring- alone? You're not coming back, Not THIS evening. You're gone, to the whoosh of the ocean And the hush of the trees Swaying in the wind. I love you, I know. But the outcome is slow And unknown. |