Walking in Winter

Text Fragment

All over he saw a world of signs. The train came every day at the same time and offered the

same solution. He walked along the cold embankment, trying to ignore the bitter sleet

that rattled into his face like icy gravel. Everything fitted together for a second.

The wind howls abuse, the black sky turns and chokes and all the sadness you can hardly

bare pushes you deeper into your anorak.

He always walked the same path.  Sometimes he walked longer, and then turned back at a

later point, but it was the only change he ever made.  But there were always small changes

in what he saw. A tree cut down, a way moved, lots of growth or decay.  He followed a path

by the river and as the river was always in transit, not just the water but icy movements in

the frosty evening, he felt small und humble.

Sometimes he managed to see the train, and then mostly turned back .  No, no it was then

the end,  a second of grace and power that was the end,  or one of the signs.  That must be

enough,  it was the perfect timing that completed the picture.

He sometimes met people walking dogs,  elderly couples picking their way gingerly through

the undergrowth,  children on bikes or young girls with huge horses between their silky

thighs.

He nodded briefly, smiled and then removed them from the picture.

They were just there for a second.

They couldn`t be part of the picture.

They all had their stories,  pasts with too many details and too many meanings.

But now there was the black rain and the first signs of the train.  From a small break in the

approaching darkness it drifted from left to right,  grabbing attention and not bothering to

fit into the early evening.  It broke the horizon like a cold mirror and shouted at the cold

fragments of humanity wandering along the ice river. 

It was never one thing.

It was a series of pictures.

It destroyed the image of itself at a moment of triumph.

It would be the same the next day, but not quite. 

Reviews

[Valentine]

Of you writings, I find this to be the best by far. Why poetry when story telling is an art form for you? Valentine

[Steven]

Your style really begs to be in a full story. Post one! And send me the rr :).

[Donald Meikle]

I have read and enjoyed all your works posted
It's always a pleasure to see through another poet's sighs

[ice]

Love this prose of walking out in winter.
The blips of poetry make it most readable.

"It would be the same the next day, but not quite."
There are suttle changes in winter, but one must look more closely to see them.

Thank you for this, I enjoyed reading it.

[Cyrano]

you have a beautiful way of writing. This is probably one of the only thing categorized as a story I've read here. read it more than once too.