mourning glory on the east coast line

seen...

this is the season of the fallen, the dying. but they're leaving in a blaze of glory.

the clock in the train carriage is stuck at 07:22. perhaps time has stopped and we are hurtling along while the rest of the world stands still. it is easy to imagine such a thing on a magical morning lifted straight out of a fairytale. thick mist finds the fields wrapped in gossamers of silver. the rising sun is a gilded peach crisscrossed in wide skating pond scrapes. we might be forgiven for thinking she's not in any rush to break the spell, such is the beauty she will burn off in her ascent.
too little sleep and the obligatory awful coffee cannot dampen the spirit of welcome that this frosted morning offers. the cattle stand as shrouded sentries at the borders of a kingdom.

i imagine the sun kissed dredlocked boy with whom i share this table has seen far more impressive sites on his travels from Oz. but if i had courage or perhaps a more friendly disposition for a fellow human i would lean across and suggest he turn his head so he can see the sun on her path.

this is a day of departing. were my brother not leaving i would not have been on this carriage. would have not seen this dawn...

::

read...

“ – the inability to distinguish between the real and the imagined, or rather the attitude that what we consider real is also imagined: every life is also an inner life, a life created.” – Margaret Atwood.

::

heard...

Oh tie me to the end of a kite
so i can go and i can go on with my life...
- Rosie Thomas

LB,x