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
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6 comments:
A post! Excitment abounds. I was beginning to thik you were just a myth.
I would like to see each piece in a larger format but I take what I can get. You are amazing.
wild! I have to wonder what you dream about? Such an imagination!
good to see you. Been meaning to try phoning again, need a good chin wag!
I love your colalges, especially prey. FAB to see a post.
These are great!
Ah my bootifool blog stalkers; where would I be without you? Thankyou
I enjoy the weeds, but also continue to try and keep my bridge in good repair.
Anyway, these are good. I like 'em.
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