Him and The City
"Of bones the city is made,
Plastered with flesh and blood.
Where decay and death are deposited,
And pride, and ingratitude."
He was 6 foot 3, Polish, and blonde, brown. With sharp, blue eyes – in colour, but in neither shape, nor emotion. Cute to some; average to others. Beautiful, strong jawline. Well spaced, features, with dimples. Rose cheeks, and a smile, that lit a room: mischievous easy; full.
He sat on the gazelle grass, long limbs folded over – looking. At nothing really. At thoughts, if you looked at anything, in thinking.
But the blue, high sky, expanded before him. Before his mudded, white trainers, and soft, alive breath. Not obscured on any side, like the city that he was from. Closed and caged and built in by grey and smoke and brick and stone. Endless rows of unhappy, worried, impatient, perplexed faces. Rushing. Impatiently. To and fro. Back and forward. Endlessly. Relentlessly. Fatiguingly. Exhaustingly.
Perhaps, they were merely a reflection of his own trapped thoughts. Of how his hands rattled the bars, and his teeth chomped on the bit, of his carbon city cage.
It wasn’t for him, he thought. In clarity. Here, the horizon, was only interrupted by the green jagged line of fir trees, undulating across the sky. Cut, artistically, and kindly, with decorative scissors.
Here, he could breath. His mind flowed and flew. Time passed, or didn’t. An escapist’s reality. This seemingly static, heaven.
Sometimes life pressed. Just now, it didn’t. But as it does, in moments of contemplation: it questioned, and gently probed. And it searched. For direction.
He watched one. And then a flock. Of swans, take white, free flight.
By Joanna Kerr
Photo: Jessica Morris