Morning

I was inspired to do this by an article in a newspaper about a poet who writes a daily tweet (140 characters) about his morning stroll through his Yorkshire village. I've decided I'm going to try to do the same but based on my paper-round and I'll be posting it here as I don't have twitter.
It will probably just be silly little observations and metaphors and probably not worth reading but I thought it would be a nice challenge for the year ahead.

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258. 8th September - 24th December

8th September.

 Morning. Lawn reclines in parchment shades like a slip of tea-stained paper. Leaves allude to a creeping autumnal edge they catch the light.

9th September.

 Morning. Ashen, ashamed, ambivalent – September trickles in surreptitiously behind an Indian Summer and swallows the scorch from her tail.

10th September.

 Morning. Mesh of the impending season waxes ever thicker; detains the sun behind checkerboard bars, prevents the world from drawing breath.

11th September.

 Morning. Glory of the rising sun holds the power of a tranquilising shot; fastening the opening of the day into a coma of golds and greens.

12th September.

 Morning. As a child, trusted with a sponge of white paint, God daubs cotton-wool bruises across the blue decor; feathered, amicable, dreamy. 

13th September.

 Morning. Apathetic aeroplanes cruise the water-ways of heaven with swan-like serenity. Beneath, parakeets satirise their flight beautifully.

14th September.

 Morning. Sunlight just kisses the tips of the trees that reach like magnificent hands from the ground – reaching out to touch the ceiling.

15th September.

 Morning. Coppice of slender boughs opposite appears torpid and sleep-ridden; weighed down by the perpetuating lethargy of yesterday’s heat.

16th September.

 Morning. The sound of rain like dropped pins on a stone floor is amplified through the glass. The air is made of waterfalls and sluice gates.

17th September.

 Morning. Grey-wrapped. Supercilious clouds plaster all four walls and blot out any tinges of dawn chorus that might have dared to breathe.

18th September.

 Morning. A placid pallor prevails, its tranquillity broken only by the occasional volley of bird song and the darting of September’s midges.

19th September.

 Morning. Dove grey leather gloves folded in the lap of the sky; soft and malleable with too many mornings’ use. First of the fallen leaves.

20th September.

 Morning. No blue and white mottle to discolour the walls and ceiling that resembles faded egg-shell. Aeroplane trail shatters the illusion.

21st September.

 Morning. Sky like the skin of an ancient elephant; mottled, creased, hanging in heavy folds over a skeleton that was not always so burdened.

22nd September.

 Morning. Drying-rack in the sky upon which grey garments are hung to drip over the grass. Birch trees shuffle and sway like seamen on land.

23rd September.

 Morning. Forget-me-not bracelets festoon a modest sky. Sunshine weaves between then like dancers around a maypole. All is light and buoyant.

24th September.

 Morning. Airy. The box we live in is perforated by ultra violet to allow breathy boughs to brush back and forth, passing whispered secrets.

25th September.

 Morning. Daylight hours open awash with the dampness of cucumber sandwiches left awaiting consumption. Insubstantial, flimsy, disappointing.

26th September.

 Morning. Bleak and shapeless, the day yields no clues. Birds amble beneath low-hanging branches like umbrella-clad crowds anticipating rain.

27th September.

 Morning. Divide between shades of servile blues, whites and greys is ill-defined. They merge sloppily – watercolour inks on blotting paper.

28th September.

 Morning. Shawn grass stems scatter the concrete like corpses of mutilated soldiers discarded in no-man’s-land. Green is vulgar against grey.

29th September.

 Morning. Like the cavern of a heart that used to love, September shuts itself down. Rain is herded through trees by a breeze of little mercy.

30th September.

 Morning. Summer packs its bags and departs in a gingerly mellow day – the slightly sun-bleached trees like elderly paper; yellowing, drying.

1st October.

 Morning. Sky appears still semi-dimmed and streaky like a half-shut eye awakening to the world, exhausted.  Bird song crescendos then dies.

2nd October.

 Morning. The dawn wears a face like a Greek mask borrowed from a tragedy. The trees sag as though only too eager too shake off their leaves.

3rd October.

 Morning. Rising sun cannot stir itself to illuminate more than the tree tops. They stand like exalted paintbrushes, tips dipped in emulsion.

4th October.

 Morning. An uneasy stillness follows an unmemorable dawn. The days trip over themselves in a bid to become history – overwritten, forgotten.

5th October.

 Morning.  A cacophony of birdsong triggers the day. The sky’s circus acts know that their days are numbered and counted out grain by grain.

6th October.

 Morning. Ill-defined clouds pace the ceiling like ripples on the tide. Greys and blues pepper the early morning whiteness as cigarette smoke.

7th October.

 Morning. Furtive, the impending day keeps its secrets in its front pocket and lays on top a poker face of gloom as thick as wallpaper paste.

8th October.

 Morning. Lone pigeon pecks half-heartedly at the strands of the impending day, as though attempting to un-pick a canvas, and then deserts.

9th October.

 Morning. An arrow-headed flock of geese forges a wound in the sky; interrupting the blotchiness of its skin and the quietness of its tongue.

10th October.

 Morning. How does Autumn happen? Like a thief? Like a shadow? It arrives how hiccups end, or how time passes, or how relationships commence.

11th October.

 Morning. Fence-post-soldiers stand to attention somewhere between the dropped conkers and the sky. Behind them, the trees blister and wail.

12th October.

 Morning. Like Picasso’s depressive era paintings, the world resides under a blue tinge. Dew drops cling to grass like tears that need crying.

13th October.

 Morning. Lily-livered and lacklustre, the day slides into place like a reluctant coin into a slot machine all cold and bitter with waiting.

14th October.

 Morning. A marbled ceiling suspended by columns of granite. The world is a stone carved from the inside out, divided up into shades of grey.

15th October.

 Morning. Peachy-hued cloud cover alludes to a day of sobbing skies. Beneath, the low-slung branches twitch like athletes awaiting the run.

16th October.

 Morning. Raindrops like scattered marbles beat for entry on the doors of houses that still slumber between the sodden earth and sodden sky.

17th October.

 Morning. Hear the homesickness in the honks of the geese that wheel and dive as they prepare to depart. Count their longing in their hordes.

18th October.

 Morning. Flamingo pink paint dabbed above gives the world a purple stain as though it went blackberry picking and has not yet washed clean.

19th October.

 Morning. An eerie translucency to the dawning blues reminds the day that summer is nothing more than an ex-lover – hopeful, heavy, history.

20th October.

 Morning. Air alight with a raucous mob of birds silhouetted against the grey film of dawn. They wheel, dive and depart, mocking the captive.

21st October.

 Morning. Day arrives stately and serene but is betrayed by the tinge of a blush riding on its skin. Oblivious squirrels do not pay homage.

22nd October.

 Morning. Lavender fields in the heavens look on in wonder at the shrivelling of the trees’ summer tresses – shifting, via yellow, to brown.

23rd October.

 Morning. Mist-blurred and murky. The day wears the fog like a coat it is too lonely to go without – shrouded in mystery, it awaits the sun.

24th October.

 Morning. The darkness lingers, outstaying its welcome like a disobedient child testing the boundaries of the night time it is confined to.

25th October.

 Morning. Ill-defined. The borders between sky and cloud are shifty as though the heavens make up an atlas full of falsities and fickleness.

26th October.

 Morning. A colour somewhere between mauve and grey, somewhere between indigo and lilac, pervades the air; holds the night’s remains captive.

27th October.

 Morning. Trees border the scene like spent candles, their flames guttering and dying on the back of the breeze. Leaves litter the ground.

28th October.

 Morning. Aeroplane trails leave trigonometry in the sky for the ground to ponder. Mathematical lines and projectiles embroider pallid blue.

29th October.

 Morning. Gloomy and festering. No light source yet parts the intense weave of grey, strung up like an old man’s dreadlocks across the sky.

30th October.

 Morning. Disorientated mist rolls in from the trees like a drink-swollen reveller staggering home. It envelopes, leaves the picture blurred.

31st October.

 Morning. Fog-musted once more, the earth wakes and watches the day arrive through the partially permeable milkiness of a semi-blind stare.

1st November.

 Morning. The trees stoop and sag without clothing, as though their summer dresses were party tricks – illusions of youth to hide true age.

2nd November.

 Morning. Leaf mould congeals on a green carpet in a sea of brown, occasionally lit by rare yellows and gold like sparks left in the embers.

3rd November.

 Morning.  Two aeroplane trails leave runes in the sky. They meet to denote the place where the treasure dwells with a stringy, white cross.

4th November.

 Morning. Myriads of summer birds pinwheel across the heavens; the collective beat of wings bears them in south-facing cycles – desert bound.

5th November.

 Morning. Appalling nudity of the trees heralds the dark days of the year. Scant leaves cling on in hapless dribs and drabs before tumbling.

6th November.

 Morning. A chalky blue expanse balloons overhead. A freshly painted canvas; un-spoilt, un-fingered, un-stirred. Jays grace the dance floor.

7th November.

 Morning. Freshly slain leaves lie in the recently-cleared mass graves. Like victims of some great war they are too numerous to individualise.

8th November.

 Morning. Ceiling is gossamer-spun; light and deceptively strong. Earth is well-watered, forming a basin into which all our tears have flowed.

9th November.

 Morning. God’s eyes are a-flood with rainwater. It pours in rivulets through the grooves in sky’s face and plasters the grass stems flat.

10th November.

 Morning. Melancholic, mauve sky mirrors the world’s mood. The sun, held captive behind clouds, stifles his own breathing, forgets to fight.

11th November.

 Morning. The palest of blues forms an air-tight canopy overhead. Like an un-broken egg it contains a world of potential beneath its shell.

12th November.

 Morning. The whisper of intermittent rain rolls in on the wind – a front of untold secrets to which only the earth it kisses will be privy.

13th November.

 Morning. Like a smoker, Night leaves behind her the faintest of smog trails. The dawn appears blurry-eyed behind this autumnal smoke screen.

14th November.

 Morning. Chilled. Colours show mild through a silver filter – embossing all the naked trees with a metal that is both beautiful and tragic.

15th November.

 Morning. An elderly tree slumps sideways against a fence post for support; knackered by the losing battle it is fighting with the seasons.

16th November.

Morning. Charcoal-smudged blue arranges the tone of the day to come: a hopeful clarity can be tasted on the breeze that shakes the shrubbery.

17th November.

 Morning. The rasp of crows intermingles with pigeon noise in the striped towelling of sky; the two ricochet off one another to make music.

18th November.

 Morning. No clouds to mar the iciness of the crystal-blue light. Beneath, dead leaves curl up – foetuses from which no new life will spawn.

19th November.

 Morning. A snake of cloud interrupts an otherwise blameless sky like the sash of a pastel-hued party dress, under-lit and peacefully aglow.

20th November.

 Morning. Drab and drizzling the day shakes itself like a wet dog and attempts not to yield to the cruel battering it receives from the wind.

21st November.

 Morning. In the semi-darkness the trees form a colossal, leafless web – a sieve through which the sky is strained – sinister yet beautiful.

22nd November.

 Morning. The shocking vibrancy of green underfoot is staggering now it has been dug out from beneath the duvet covers of autumn’s trimmings.

23rd November.

 Morning. Dismal, dingy, demoralising. Lone bird turns loop-the-loops against a set-piece of grey – a solo act at a poorly attended circus.

24th November.

 Morning. Stationary and sombre, the dawn does not crack so easily. No broad chink of sunrise or purple bruising of clouds to be seen today.

25th November.

 Morning. Nude branches stagger and weave beneath a sky full of aeroplanes. They dance shameless waltzes with the foolish revelry of drunks.

26th November.

 Morning. Wall-to-wall cloud cover as though the day has thrown itself inside a silver-lined parachute and is huddled beneath it for warmth.

27th November.

 Morning. The night presides over its realm, wrapped in a cloak of used blotting paper, with a magisterial aura to drown the day.

28th November.

 Morning. Ice blue broken only by the trail of an aeroplane catching the early sun like a comet. All is preserved; unbroken like virgin snow.  

29th November.

 Morning. Like candied fruit, the grass is crystalline beneath the frost that smothers it. The light is something between pink and yellow.

30th November.

 Morning. So autumn, crowned by one final sunrise of frosted beauty, expires itself like a milk bottle left out to sour. Majestic delicacy.

1st December.

 Morning. An indigo sky pales to white gold at its corners. Earth sits within a dome, like a bejewelled paperweight – crisp and diamond cut.

2nd December.

 Morning. Dawn is dozy and docile in contrast to yesterday’s knife edges: the air is thickened and gloomy while the sky is like faded denim.

3rd December.

 Morning. Disgruntled pigeons flap to and fro beneath a marbled grey sky. Scarce leaves still fall occasionally, as if from a dripping tap.

4th December.

 Morning. Frost coiled tightly around the day like an angry fist. Every detail, down to the last leaf, is held captive by its frozen edges.

5th December.

 Morning. Red streaks in the sky like bloodied finger marks give the world a peachy hue. Like a bruise, the sky is not quite brown or blue.

6th December.

 Morning. Appears as though watched through a steamed-over window pane – all outlines slightly fuzzed by the fog, all colours slightly muted.

7th December.

 Morning. Dank and tangled like unkempt hair, the dawn delays its arrival in a parade of grizzled mist and low cloud but does not yet weep.

8th December.

 Morning. Pitchy indigo hues notate the heavens – brooding and thunderous. In the glow of one light, a skeletal tree’s hand is illuminated.

9th December.

 Morning. In the ink-stained half-light, trees pin their silhouettes to a sheet of craft paper to make stencils for the day to draw around.

10th December.

 Morning. Dingy, despairing, dispiriting. Like a soiled gem, the dawn fails to reflect the light fully, day creeps in as if in slow-motion.

11th December.

 Morning. An easy frost combines with mist to form a concoction of winter beauty. Dead leaves have never looked so frail or so attractive.

12th December.

Morning. Birdsong breaks the photographic stillness with the tender care of one cracking an eggshell against a mixing bowl – gentle, teasing.

13th December.

 Morning. Clouds blur indefinitely into the creamy blue of the early sky. Nothing quite looks solid, not even the trees framed on the horizon.

14th December.

 Morning. Pink puddles like spillages from a strawberry milkshake stain the sky. Its blush does not quite extend as far as its glass ceiling.

15th December.

 Morning. Cavernous, purpled night merges into day. Strings of indigo and grey cloud form a mesh of raised veins pulsing against the surface.

16th December.

 Morning. Low-flying birds graze the tips of the grass stems – a withered army of once-green soldiers, now stooping under the frosty chill.

17th December.

 Morning. Myriads of birds churn up the sky, their calls reverberating through the air like the ringing of a telephone. No peace for the dawn.

18th December.

 Morning. Sky as brilliantly blue as a kingfisher’s plumage tops a set-piece of trees, dressed for winter above the bejewelled grass carpet.

19th December.

 Morning. Lilac and languid the dawn unravels – serenity juxtaposed only by the brash orange of a discarded football, wilting on the ground. 

20th December.

 Morning. Regal blue peers between charcoal branches; the scenery arrives like work on an artist’s easel being brushed gradually into focus.

21st December.

 Morning. Desolate and dimly-lit like the interior of a deceased being’s house, dawn struggles to stir itself or to coax the sun into action.

22nd December.

 Morning. A handful of token leaves still droop from a not-quite-naked tree. Brown and shrivelled they look like discarded gloves hung to air.

23rd December.

 Morning. Above, the spindling branches wash back and forth at the mercy of the wind, throwing fantastical shadows where the light hits them.

24th December.

 Morning. Aeroplanes and winter birds exchange flight paths, criss-crossing their way across a sky as dark and dense as an aggressive bruise.

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