CRIS-CROSS RHYTHMS THAT EXPLODE WITH HAPPINESS:
Rhythm of the rain in the night, rhythm of the silence of the sheets,
rhythm of the rain against glass, low slapping thuds as it hits the roof.
At sunrise the clouds hang low in ripples, coming up the valley
like smoke. I check the horizon for signs of fire but it’s just dirty mist
ground hugging, transforming Essex into the Heads of the Valley circa ’78.
Standing at the side of the road, excited by the hiss of the blacktop, rubber
rolls at speed, in from the fields to the city. Arteries of Black, glistening
& wet, the air is fresh & sweet. It’s where I found a finger puppet monkey
lying in the mud, grinning up at the sky & as I stooped to ask it’s name
a stoat bounced across the field, into the cover of a ditch brook, oblivious
to the giant with the Adidas feet. At breakfast we danced around the table,
listening to the New album by Staff Benda Bilili.
May your day start as good as this.