Every Day Starts The Same

A journey most of us take every day of our lives.

Just stepping out the front door is an adventure for many, 

wandering the streets, hard, cracked
paving stones underfoot,
the world rumbles and roars
refusing to cycle by with only a quiet whirr.

Some go to foreign lands to see what is different,
mesmerising water as it crashes on down,
the grey, brown, black
of great rocks stacked up high,
the rainbow of sunbathing gardens colouring the world.

I like the black of the road, the colour of dark,
the chalk of the middle that keeps us in line.
The emerald of the hill and the sea of the sky
as it meets in the middle as Atlas, to hold on
its back, to keep us in balance.

My journey is the one I take every day;
warmth turns to shivers as I throw back the sleep,
cracking and groaning and creaking to life.
My feet hit the sandpaper, indifferent to all,
instead of unforgiving, childhood wood.

It can take hours or just a few seconds,
if the distance is too great I’ll be unconscious in moments.
I’ll cross that blue desert one way or another,
over plastic rocks, scaling that great red and metal cliff
to turn on my laptop and join the real world.