The Watcher

“Oh shut up Mum” she says and shuts the door on me.
It’s her first time festival camping and I confess to feeling not a little anxious.
Maybe I overdid it a bit with the helpful suggestions.
Later in Ventnor, I wonder how many spotted the grey car trundling up hill and down dale… until, at last, it was left to rest up in the town where the hills weren’t quite so demanding.
I’m turning into an old woman.
We moon-gaze – it’s supposed to be a ‘Honey Moon’ tonight; the clouds obscure but still the watcher sees on this Friday…the 13th
The Watcher

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Signs of Winter

Veiny fingers of frost

Stretch across the rear windscreen.

A chill liquid blast soon

Sees them melt into icy

Rivulets – vanquishing

Winter’s tentative hold…

This time.

Weatherbound

Hailstones march down windscreen…no escape!

Beneath the hood

The glowering sun from earlier has taken refuge in his hoodie – oblivious to the lone light aircraft flying under the darkening bank of cloud. Below, the gulls wheel and skim over the earth catching the keen air currents which manifest themselves in the undulations of the trees and the rippling of the hedgerows. Meanwhile, a draught starts to howl at me through the gap in the car door frame – its volume rising to remind me who is lord of this land.

Unfettered

Crawling

Like insects,

cars move around

the crowded car park

waiting –

looking hopefully

for  non-existent spaces.

Birds fly between leafy

places,

smugly observing

humankind confined in

their brightly coloured armour.

Oh

to be

free as our

feathered, furred and scaly

companions

on this

planet that teams

with such wild unfettered

life

“When the earth becomes awash in a sea of metal and man-made pollutants, we should take to our wings and fly away to a less tainted place.”

Impetuosity

Headlights drive close behind me. Suddenly they veer right and a white Clio overtakes in the narrow winding lane, letting off a long horn blast as it does. A little incensed by the reckless stupidity of the driver, I impetuously return the hoot. Immediately the car stops in front and sits there menacingly in the blackness of the late evening.

For what seems like an eternity, my breath is held; I wait for the car door to open. My headlights are still on full beam – forgotten in the speed of the moment. I flick the lever and they dip. A long, long second or two later and the car roars off into the night. Shaken, I continue on my way and around every corner I almost expect to see the car imbedded in a hedge.

I make sure that on the return journey I face my demons and drive back by the same route.

Trolley Rage

It seems like the entire population of the Isle of Wight have decided to travel to Ryde this Good Friday. There is waiting room only for those wishing to actually get out of their cars and join the Spaghetti Junction for shopping trolleys that has taken over the aisles inside the supermarket.
It makes me wonder at the online shoppers. Did they abandon all attempts to place their Friday delivery when faced with the insurmountable internet traffic of this Wednesday last? Surely the virtual gridlock can’t have been as bad as the real thing here and now!

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