Bladnoch Beast
A sort of homecoming.
I journey home. The wind tears at my face as it scorches the snow. Drifts are indiscernible from the remainder of the canvas. Stumbling into many and with my head down i begin to lose my bearings zig-zagging from boundary to boundary. Looking down it's so pristinely white my eyes dazzle and small glittering flashes dot my vision. The howling noise at my lobes is as white as the scene and with my neck craned i push on. Every now and again the roar of the wind changes and my heart gushes as it deceives me and laughing, mimmicks the throb of an engine. Before too long i reach a sudden cliff. A never ending drift four foot in depth. I pause and suddenly this 3 mile charge home feels gargantuan. My hood lifted i turn my back to the wind and pull out a cigarette and fumbling through my pockets with numb hands i try and light it with my inhalor. This raises a smile which in turn cracks my lips. I fumble again, light the lucious laramie and let the smoke rush over the sting and as the taste of tar hits with a tinge of iron I turn into the bitter rush thanking god i hate to shave. I plod, i fall, my boots heave with snow and i suddenly realise that creaking sound isn't the snow but my asthmatic lungs. I fumble for my inhalor and produce my lighter when I realise i'm thinking of my baby. She may be wrapped up warm in her bed but now she's here with me, with her silly hat and her beautiful, silly grin. She's sending me her "Happy Fawts", spurring me on, as like a bairn the snow drift continues to run out ahead. Finally, after an hour, albeit triumphant, it grants me my wishes and stops for breath. I turn a corner i suddenly feel hard tarmac surge up through my heavy feet and stiff knees as they shudder with the delightful impact. As if in celebration a startled murder of crows take flight and a hundred dots of dense black ink bleed into the canvas and when they dissipate into the white wind the village comes into my readjusted focus. Three miles and two and a half hours later a hot brew awaits and moistens my lips fueling me with the warmth of home. After a meal i slink into my bed to thoughts of my baby. She's still warm and sound asleep in hers but not really because like always, she's right here with me, with that grin, wishing me a goodnight.
A sort of homecoming.
I journey home. The wind tears at my face as it scorches the snow. Drifts are indiscernible from the remainder of the canvas. Stumbling into many and with my head down i begin to lose my bearings zig-zagging from boundary to boundary. Looking down it's so pristinely white my eyes dazzle and small glittering flashes dot my vision. The howling noise at my lobes is as white as the scene and with my neck craned i push on. Every now and again the roar of the wind changes and my heart gushes as it deceives me and laughing, mimmicks the throb of an engine. Before too long i reach a sudden cliff. A never ending drift four foot in depth. I pause and suddenly this 3 mile charge home feels gargantuan. My hood lifted i turn my back to the wind and pull out a cigarette and fumbling through my pockets with numb hands i try and light it with my inhalor. This raises a smile which in turn cracks my lips. I fumble again, light the lucious laramie and let the smoke rush over the sting and as the taste of tar hits with a tinge of iron I turn into the bitter rush thanking god i hate to shave. I plod, i fall, my boots heave with snow and i suddenly realise that creaking sound isn't the snow but my asthmatic lungs. I fumble for my inhalor and produce my lighter when I realise i'm thinking of my baby. She may be wrapped up warm in her bed but now she's here with me, with her silly hat and her beautiful, silly grin. She's sending me her "Happy Fawts", spurring me on, as like a bairn the snow drift continues to run out ahead. Finally, after an hour, albeit triumphant, it grants me my wishes and stops for breath. I turn a corner i suddenly feel hard tarmac surge up through my heavy feet and stiff knees as they shudder with the delightful impact. As if in celebration a startled murder of crows take flight and a hundred dots of dense black ink bleed into the canvas and when they dissipate into the white wind the village comes into my readjusted focus. Three miles and two and a half hours later a hot brew awaits and moistens my lips fueling me with the warmth of home. After a meal i slink into my bed to thoughts of my baby. She's still warm and sound asleep in hers but not really because like always, she's right here with me, with that grin, wishing me a goodnight.