The Way Home
By Tom King
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Sounds swim and slink away beneath the blood red sky
Songs play on the radio and I listen
I listen
The quiet birds chant out their mantra as I turn towards home
Clouds cross the sun, its rays are blocked
Frittered away against the dark banks.
Like a screen door sliding shut, so the clouds envelope the round orb
Its crimson rays are impeded by the cotton-wool bobs
The air grows cool, and the light begins to dwindle
As I make my way along the road.
Long shadows appear on the asphalt surface
And suddenly the light is gone, as if someone had flicked a switch
The clouds
Break
The moonshine lights up the countryside in a strange sepulchral setting
A funereal procession of trees and lamp posts
The stars wink at me, hiding some strange portent
I walk on, bemused.
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