At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan
© L.M.Noonan 2008
The end of another nail biting week.
Watching the news on the telly and our dollar's gyrations.
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3 comments:
Anyone would think that your shadow has been etched into a concrete wall by a nuclear blast that emanated from Wall street.
yep, David is right.
It's like some ancient graffiti image and would be perfect etched onto wall street.
If money continues to evaporate, I might need to start looking fo a job.
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