We must get out to blow away the cobwebs. We must appreciate the colours more. Take the time to appreciate the sunshine that this fine morning brings. Find the breath to walk the hills, up and down, that the locale brings.
Take the time to remember who we are and what we mean to each other. Take the time to remember. The more I remember the more I smell autumn. Leaves in the air falling to the ground. A dampness that clings with cold to the nostrils with cold dew hanging from them.
I look for the autumn picture. I see mine. Mine, the one and only. I see it just before i see a group of photographers, potentially a club. Its nice they are out together taking the same red shrub for all it can offer from angle to composition. Bean wants to know if I want to join a club. I don’t.
That will do. Just the one stop today. And we walk on. Its not chilling the bones. Bean is telling me about a groups disdain for Halloween as an American thing. She will also remind what the pagans think. I will turn this sequence into a poem. Indeed I have already and posted it to disabilityarts.online It should appear in a day or two. It’s called Ghost Walk.
Spectral thoughts turn to this time of the year in days past. I see myself pushing a wheelbarrow asking for: ‘A penny for the guy’
But that was then and this is now and the wheel of the year turns on. Turning as we walk and turning whilst we talk, up another incline to Highgate High Street or Highgate Hill as we may know it more properly and we look into the windows and we are impressed with the window displays, that tell of Highgate (the bookshop) and tell more regularly of the pagan festival
A classy joint; Highgate. Middle class Nirvana. We stop off to peruse the exhibition in the museum. It would have been so much better if only i’d have packed my old man’s glasses. Its amazing I can still see. Glaucoma is in the family. Other astmatics talk of detached retinas. As the seasons turn. So we turn. Older. Not always wiser. I see a new image for my signs selection…. that’s a collection of poems (you know where) and in this season of darkness i start thinking of new lines on the story of when the lights go on