Author: peter wyeth

Just out of shot
(and never in focus)
Cat hair, dust
The past leaving itself in ever incremental layers,
The detritus of future’s friction.

For a finger to write upon it,
make it new again.

Anxiety. A nothingness.

General unease, a sense of fear coupled with an end of term feeling.

Half hour queues around a car park trying to make/not make eye contact with ourselves, to stare at empty shelves and wonder what next.

“What did you do in lockdown, Daddy?”
I worked. Everyday. Adding to the ever growing pile of pointlessness whilst trying to provide.

The air of uncertainty about you then somewhere else, lost in the rhythm of the day, then back again, cycling over near empty motorways.

And in quiet moments, the sound of  birds breaking up the flow of thoughts, cooking, eyes following the light, the shadows. Just another trip around the sun, all of us just clinging on.

I really miss singing sometimes. I don’t miss the listening back, the (often) feeling of worthlessness of it all ; the difference between the feeling as you sang, the imagination of what it was and what it now is.

But I still do it all the same.