On a wet patch of grass, lies a thought.
Damp. Soggy.
A memory flies with a breeze.
A distinct scent.
Burnt. Dark.
The sun blocked by the overcast, shines.
Unaware of the grey underneath.
***
On the hard surface of a bench, sits a thought.
Cold. Paralysed.
Pressed by the emptiness on either side.
Numb. Motionless.
The sound travels faster than the traffic.
Yet slow, and ugly.
Inside, the quiet remains.
Calm and unaffected.
Still. Framed and hung.
***
The clock ticks, as usual.
The paper cup is colder than the tea.
The stranger’s dog has fetched the ball eleven times.
And I soon begin to move.