Cobblestones

By day, I am many things,

Overcrowded molars,

chewing rubber gum.

Grand piano keys

washboard melodies

Drum-drumming fingers,

to savour nights' crumb

I yearn for the spark of a clog

Or the nudge of a log,

dropped from a high-stacked waggon.

I crave the squeal of a steel rimmed wheel

passing the 'George and Dragon.'

At night I dream

of bustling streets

when my repertoire was full

of sounds without insulation.

Naked sounds

raw sounds 

smash on the floor sounds

felt in close proximity.

Road works offer some relief

when I'm teased out with giant tooth picks

or flossed with high pressure hoses.

It’s only then that I can truly breathe,

and sense

and listen..........

Wednesdays Angel

On Wednesday I met an angel. Well, the friend of an angel. Well, not really a friend either, more of an Agent. Not a Literary Agent or, God forbid an Estate Agent, or even a Special Agent, although that would have been cool.

Anyway, the agent looked normal enough. No sprouting feathers or golden halo. Although, when she sat in the bay window the winter sun breathed on her head and shoulders, just like a halo.

Halo’s aside, we started off with a chat, well it was more of a series of unconnected conversations - topics ranging from my recent marital demise to the meaning of life and her well-fed cats.

Two hours tried on 10 minutes for size and liked the fit. I felt like I’d come home to mum’s hug and a mug of something hot and spicy, after wandering the cold streets wearing someone else’s ill-fitting Summer clothes.

She suggested we start and positioned a dining chair in the middle of the lounge like a mobile hairdresser. She told me to relax and place both hands on my knees in the ‘back-to-school’ pose

She moved round behind me. I closed my eyes. I’d recently seen ‘Sweeney Todd’ and swallowed hard. She placed her hands on my shoulders with a light, lovers touch. Sensuality and trust becoming one, and after a few moments she moved alongside me. I sensed one flat trembling palm close to my heart like a kind scanner.

The heart is a fragile organ. Don’t believe all that bullshit about gallons of blood and a billion beats. The heart can break as easy as a butterfly’s wing, unless the hand that holds it isn’t human.

Next, the turn of my belly, and crotch. Oh, I forgot to say there was a brief ‘before’ bit as well.  With the aid of a tear-drop crystal suspended from a fine chain she concluded my Chakra’s were not so much blocked as impacted - (nursey) joke.

I digress. With eyes tightly closed slight dizziness took over. The way you do when you look over the side of a high bridge or multi-storey car park. I snatched my mind back just in time. Then, there was this feeling. Not quite holding, more like slow juggling as though I was being passed from one huge hand to another.

Behind my eyelids it was November the fifth. Pink tourmaline circles of light

pulsed before me, followed by red and gold. I didn’t want it to end.

Heat followed. Dad told me to “get away from the fire!” But I still singed my fingertips. Next, a building nervous excitement like when we take our clothes off for the very first time in front of someone we love hoping they won’t giggle at that large dark mole creeping up our back.

I opened my eyes and the rainbow vanished in a slightly altered, better connected world.

V Day.

For singletons or the recently separated, V Day can seem like a worrisome blot on their emotional landscape. For eleven months of the year Florists, Confectioners and Card Shops churn out fairly unremarkable blooms, sweets and messages – then something odd happens at the beginning of February. It’s as though they’ve missed out on Christmas and are determined to try and out-tack one another.

It begins like Chicken Pox, with the odd pink blemish or swirl of red ribbon. Then as each day passes more and more cerise, magenta and crimson appears. Window displays become chock full of silk veins and arteries plumbed into swelling satin organs. Jauntily angled cocktail glasses and champagne bottles vie for space in this sick bowl of gushing sentimentality.

When I pass my local Thornton’s I’m reminded of that scene from Chocolat , when Alfred Molina is unable to quell his repressed urges any longer and runs amok in the window of the local chocolatier, gorging himself on everything he can, before he falls into a sugary stupor. This would be relatively easy to reproduce in Thornton’s, but Interflora and Hallmark might prove slightly more challenging.

For a start, I suffer from hay fever which cancels out the florists. How does one run amok in a card shop window? I could tear off all the bows and ribbons and adorn my body like some camp pearly queen or better still tear of all my clothes and stick myself to the largest card - a statement of dissent, if ever there was one.

Then there’s the question of disabling all the alarms and cutting through the steel safety shutters. I could always buy out the entire stock of Valentines cards and drop them into a flaming brazier whilst shouting “Love is dead!” through a megaphone to passing shoppers, but that would just get me sectioned under the mental health act.

No, the best thing I can do is not get involved. On the 14^th February I’ll get up at 7am and slot into my well-worn routine. With my index finger hovering over the mute button I’ll sit and watch Bill and Susanna being nice to each other and sip my instant decaff.

At approximately 9am I won’t rush to the front door and pore over the post, tearing open a certain beautifully hand -written white envelope with abandon, hoping for the subtle scent of Fleur by Floris. No, I won’t do any of that – I promise.

The Last Snowflake

At Cloud Central things were getting interesting.  The cloud in question was so full of water, it kept hitting the tops of tall buildings and hills as it dragged its heavy cargo across the countryside. If clouds could talk this one would be swearing, a lot.

Inside, all the tiny droplets of water were waiting. They stood in long rows like nervous soldiers, looking for signs from their cloud mother that it would soon be time to go.

 Unfortunately, a few impatient drops couldn’t wait for Momma’s big green light, so they just jumped anyway and hoped for the best. The cloud hardly felt a thing as a few thousand droplets all joined hands and shouted ‘Geronimo’!

Sadly, the cold North Wind was far too busy making pretty patterns on a large lake to notice the kamikaze bunch as they slipped past him, catching a team of practising footballers by surprise.  The coach tried to put up his large golfing brolly, but the shower was over before it opened.

High above in the heavily pregnant cloud, the light switched from red to amber and five billion babies all shouted ‘Yes!’

          “Any second now” said Sam, a fat little female, shaking like a watery jelly. She didn’t have to wait long. The amber light flickered, dimmed and was replaced by a bright green “GO”. The mother cloud thought about adding some special effects, like thunder or lightening. After all it was nearly Christmas.  At the very last second she decided against it, so as not to frighten a large herd of cow’s right underneath her trailing skirts.

Right on cue, the North wind stopped doodling and went to meet the latest batch of wannabe snowflakes. A migrating flock of Canada Geese put pay to the dreams of a few thousand, as they sliced through them in a huge grey arrow formation.  Luckily, Sam wasn’t amongst this first wave. She was busy trying to unstick herself from a small red spider that had hitched a ride over from France.

          “You need to shake your third leg, not your fourth!” screamed Sam, pulling and twisting as hard as she could. The spider was far too busy repairing a small hole in his cobweb parachute to hear her.

          “This cannot be happening to me”. Yelled Sam. Come on, or I’ll miss my chance!”  She could see all her brothers and sisters below her, whooping with excitement. Finally, the spider stepped back to examine his handiwork and felt a little trickle of water on the hairs of his third leg, so he shook her off.

          “Ye-s!” yelled Sam, feeling the air rushing past her chubby little body as she fought to stay in shape.

          “They never mentioned this at flight school.” Every few seconds her arms and legs would break free and Sam had to suck them back in again before they left her body for good.

A few thousand feet below, the North Wind was working his magic. He liked this part of the job, because he got to create something amazing for a change. Most of the time he just pushed stuff about, like some old caretaker pushing an icy broom. Talking of ice, he started blowing gently on the water babies, as though they were pollen. Little by little the soft squidgy droplets began to freeze. He gave them tiny transparent bones from which new hands and feet started to sprout.

He also loved the sound they made as they froze - like someone rubbing the side of a balloon. A billion or so laughing, squeaking snowflakes is a noise the wind never wants to forget.

Sam was getting closer. She squeezed herself into a narrow spikey shape so she could fall a bit faster. It seemed to be working. The wind got louder and louder. Above the streets and houses, flurries of just - born snowflakes whirled and danced. Some stuck to chimney pots and TV aerials. Others banded together in clumps, for safety.

The earliest arrivals sacrificed themselves, melting into the tarmac like tiny white ghosts. Before long though, they stopped melting and started settling. Delicate lace footprints began appearing on the streets and pavements as more and more snowflakes were born.

And then, as quick as it had begun, the snowflakes stopped falling. People looked up into the sky, their mouths wide open, as if to say “is that it?” The North Wind stopped blowing too and had a quick look around to check for any stragglers.

          “Hey! Yelled Sam, as loud as she could. Wait for me!” It was too late; the North Wind sighed deeply and started to move away. This was a disaster for Sam. She’d come so far. It couldn’t end like this, it just couldn’t.

Now, as a rule, an empty-headed cloud isn’t the most reliable of mothers, but for some reason this one had very good hearing. She heard Sam’s tiny voice and decided to help out. Even though it was most definitely ‘against the rules’ she produced a small bolt of lightning and fired it right in front of the winds face.

          “What the... said the North Wind looking upwards. Doesn’t she read her own memos?” As he looked up he caught sight of something twinkling in the sunlight. He moved a little higher and saw a small, fairly insignificant water droplet falling like a dart.

          “There’s always one.”  Said the wind, smiling broadly. He took a deep breath, as though he was about to blow down a large tree and let fly. By the time it reached Sam it wasn’t half as strong, and she felt herself changing as she fell to earth.

          So this is what it’s like – being a snowflake? She thought, as she stared wide-eyed at the new icy ball gown forming around her. The kind North Wind sighed for the last time and blew off to make some mischief with a so-called windproof skyscraper.

In back gardens all over town, children were already throwing snowballs and making snowmen and women, while their parents took them gloves and hot cups of tea.  In one particular house though, there were no children playing, nor were there any signs of life, at all. Sam was almost at the ground, and she too sighed and smiled like the North Wind, because her only wish had finally been granted and she didn’t mind what happened next.

On the top floor of the dark, silent house a window creaked open and a rather wrinkly hand came out. The hand belonged to a very sad old lady who had just lost her husband. She shivered at the cold air on her hand and was just about to pull it in when she squinted up into the sky.

          “It can’t be.” She said, screwing up her red-rimmed eyes.

          “You’d better believe it!” shouted Sam as she threw out her tiny frosted arms and legs. The old lady slowly opened her fingers and watched as Sam came to rest on her cold bony hand. A face that had cried so many tears the night before, cried one more just as Sam, the last little snowflake melted away.

© Simon Daniels