At the Station.

At the station I take shelter from the rain in the thrashed shed. Two boys around the age of 14 sit there laughing. They're dressed for winter in a way that suggests that they're not quite grown-ups in their mothers' eyes and maybe not fully aware of – or weighed down by – the dictates of fashion. As they're passing jokes and puns about killer-whales I can't help myself, but join in; or interrupt, actually. We agree that it might be better to freeze to death in the cold water rather than being chewed up. I'm not sure how, but we end up with wondering about what hedgehogs in microwave ovens would be like. Some cruel form of a spike-bomb? It's really boys' imaginations let loose and I don't feel out of place though 40 years older than them. I just enjoy laughing and fooling around after 4 weeks of being locked up with a mean virus.

after coughing a sudden hole in the December clouds

A girl and with an older boy – a young man, rather – join the two boys. They make room for the newcomers on the remnants of the bench. They obviously attend to the same school and the girl is in the same class as the boys though she looks somewhat older. Girls tend to do that in that age. Her hair is dyed, make-up is heavy, a cloud of tacky perfume surrounds her and she is fashionably dressed. The older boy lets her sit in his lap. The boyish boys suddenly get less boyish and more embarrassed as if they try to mature in a matter of seconds. They sit on needles and their winter pale faces - acne and all – take on a faint red colour. No more giggles or killer-whales and I take another mint-drop while they talk about someone in their class. The rails light up before the train comes around the bend.

on edge of the year less and less roses to pick

...

file date: December 13, 2011