bichoose (bichoose) wrote,

Tuesday 10th April 2007.

Once more i find myself waiting at the bus stop, the last few days,being an uncomfortable freedom from my usual seat, has taken it's toll, the sound of the cork has been ominous throughout the Easter rising, Chardonnay has even dribbled beneath my toes leveled up under my finger nails and gurgled around my ear lobes.The main purpose has been neatly to side step any faiths calling from the sands beckoning repent and other traits i find too woozy to even contemplate.My only acceptance was to watch Kingdom Of Heaven..through chardonnay eyes, i like the line surrounding..i am not those men...sadly they no longer can be found wandering down the cart tracks anymore.

For once clouds were invisible the sun cooked the mind into soft boiled eggs the journey down to the shore line looking for King Canute curled the toes, i passed a few block churches down the country roads all i could think off how nice they looked, almost majestic yet to me far from utopia on the inside. A betrayal of what they should really mean.Everywhere you go in England you can read such offerings written in the fruiting green, covering the hawthorn a tree. Taken up by the robber barons of old to enclose the land and thus the peasants tree was used to keep the great unwashed out. a cry of irony perhaps was lost in down in the time vaults from which the will to overthrow has been lost in the seconds repeated in Coronation Street...certainly no Hawthorn there.The bus curls up the lane stops the rush of air makes me look down,catching in my eye a blur of fur as a dog sidesteps in front of me and takes my be it...perhaps another seat perhaps another picture fronts my eyes and the year begins once more to journey on....

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