Vertical.
Vertical does not go with vertical.
Turning back,
I stick to ground level.
My right foot being crook,
I remain
at one with the foot of
Snowdon.
Pressure.
Pressure is a cure for the pain.
I apply it, settling myself down upon the arch of Snowdon’s foot,
hoping to stunt the flow of all incoming annoyances.
Equipped with pencils and colours, I
sketch out the house of my Achille’s heel –
pale green – not yet quite gangrenous!
Around it, I fill in the broccoli florets,
like clouds, not static,
but still –
even harder to capture!
I feel good, focused and intent upon
completion.
Clouds of charcoal grey force themselves
between artist and paper,
threatening to destroy
all that is, just in itself, fine about this moment.
A child skirts around me, invading
the me-space.
The me-space of my own arched foot.
‘Is it good?’ a father asks,
turning up the volume of his iPlayer in
advance of retort.
No child’s voice required.
Just laughter, loudness, and
a square of burnt-black
deadness.
The arch of my foot
barbecued, and my lungs
all clogged up with
the follies of
otherness.
I unravel and retreat.
The moment
still free.
Copyright of text and image owned by Jay Cool, 8th August, 2019
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