Season

It was the day the pigeons came. They breakfasted on the lawn, an acquired taste. It was a very cool bunch of birds, just picking away, entirely focused. Oblivious really. What it is to have a one-tracked mind. There were over twenty, spread out, in a world of their own. They left as suddenly as they had arrived, other worms nearby slumbering, unconscious of their plight. I had wondered out loud which one had signalled to bird traffic control. The unison was quite remarkable. I had sat here, with my coffee, railing, having woken to the daily dread of bad news. The delusional court jester as dysfunctional as ever and the false hope of a reset. The hung over clouds had not helped either. Like winter had parked, making itself felt on a northerly wind. It took an act to have changed the direction of the moment. The act of cheering up, a reminder to be grateful: we had received a video message – the boy, just three, he had read a story, entirely memorised – We found the hat. We found it together. I longed, at that moment, for a journey to Chester, a hope for a cuddle and a reunion. Reading together again, I am dreaming I have a hat. The change had occurred: the light had entered, a return to gratitude. For the warmth inside, the simple pleasure with you – no need ever to rush, you say – of a breakfast of boiled eggs and marmalade toast, and an new understanding that the cold wind had its own season.

© Rick Frame


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