juggle (stapleton rd, bs5)

head lowered, i lean and rest. out of the glare to a temporary hush.

oh to leave those four walls – the screens, thoughts and routines that keep me in place. let’s fall: drop all.

an empty english orchard. soft pastel pips and horizontal stems. i catch the last apple, bite. 

slow steps over cement soft as sand; i feel two adjacent glasses and absorb the warmth in, behind and beyond the both. 

‘very sorry, not ready’ (the elderly chef), ‘just warming up, it’s been a long cold night. i will cook an oven bright for you’. an oven bright; a flavour hard to define.

birds corner and flowers sing; a braid of little voices, the scent of another place.

now the ride, as south wind clears a path – i open my eyes and rejoin myself at Ra’s side, sucked in by slipstream. we bounce in and out – invisible accidents/explosions – all over the glass and pavement. yes!

falling off, i open one last time to see her face. and then Ra was gone: over the sky, underneath the sea.

i turn to retrace my 31 steps… an hour had passed…

the cold, grey wind numbs my face and dulls my senses. i follow the lady as the sand turns back to hard, black cement. she is a juggler. with my return, so too am i.

thanks you for reading don’t forget the sun. take care. k x

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