A
Winter’s Day
By
michaelgcasey (that's me)
As
I look from my window I see the blue blue sky. Birds dive and soar better than
any circus acrobat, they are painting a picture with their wings. Tiny tiny
wisps of white cloud remain, like left over candy floss on a child's face, like
white whiskers on a very old woman’s face.
Curtains
are pulled open and windows are inched
open too, daylight and fresh air to bedrooms shuttered down against a cold
winters night. People stand and yarn and
scratch too as they struggle to wake up fully. Then one or two realise they
don’t wear any pyjamas so they hurry away from their windows, their wives,
their husbands, their lovers laughing at their stupidity. At least old Mrs
Jones may have had a thrill.
The
sounds of morning, of daylight rise. Slowly the sound of the milk float, the
sounds of milk bottles clinking together as the milkman does his rounds, this
way and that. The sound of of Mrs Murphy walking her dog, the dog panting in
the cold winters air. He doesn’t have a sheepskin coat to keep him warm. He has
his own fur coat but this winter is a cold one, so Goldie the dog could do with
an extra coat too.
People
dance down their door steps to their
car, nagging children to hurry up as its cold. Children write their name in the
frost on their neighbours’ cars before being told off. John the neigborhood
jogger rushes past, the kids stick their tongue out at him, he does the same,
they all laugh, only for John to miss his stride slip on an icy patch and fall
to the ground hurting his elbow as he does so. Still laughing the kids get
in the car and are taken off to see grandpa, John is rubbing his elbow and his
bum as he gets up gingerly.
The
lads, we are so hard, appear from their homes to noisily attack the day, Sunday
is for shouting, but not too loud, as they have headaches and hangovers, did
they really chat up that ugly fat girl, but they gave her his brother’s mobile
number and not his own. They stride off to the news agent for The News Of The
World, just for the sports pages, their mum's can read the scandal section and
the horoscopes.
One
or two black people wearing their Sunday best pass by on their way to church, a
throwback to decades before when people still went to church and when people
still wore their Sunday best. People used to dress up to go to the theatre too,
but now, but now.
I
reach for the kettle and have my first coffee of the day, coffee with milk and
no sugar, the way English people have coffee, not the American way, just the
soft English way. My kids want toast and peanut butter, or cheese on toast, so
my 3 slices of toast become one slice of toast as I feed my girls. I nag them
to put slippers and socks on, yes we have nice carpet but in the winter’s
weather they are always getting colds, so I nag them, I nag them. My wife nags
them in Chinese too, or Shanghai dialect. The phone rings, its Germany calling,
or rather my wife’s best friend who’s calling from Germany, the cackle or hens, of chickens
clucking is the noise these 2 Shanghai girls make, as they talk in Shanghai,
when are we coming back to Germany is the message. Cluck cluck cluck.
The
sky has changed the blue has changed to grey, will the snow return, its been a
snowy winter over here in Birmingham, some parts of the country have had the
worse weather in 20years. The children have quietened down, my wife has
relented and put a nature program on the tv for them. As for me I was going to
try and write a poem but instead you see what’s before you. I’m half listening
to Mike and The Mechanics a cd I’ve loaded to the computer, “give me the simple
life” he sings, I suppose my life is a simple life too. But if we can see the poetry in life then we enjoy the simple
things which make up all are lives. All our lives are poetry if only we take the time to watch and
listen, while we’re making toast for the kids
p.s.
This piece was from last Winter.
the slim look post quadruple heart bypass in 2015
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