the colour of our lives

poetry • celebration • faith • nature • humanity • imperfections • glory

9 October 2001 #1

Everyone has that feeling sometimes
when walking alone; the way the rain
taps lightly on your umbrella, or the wind
makes a stilted rhythm in the trees.

There’s something sinister about not quite
being sure if you’re being followed, and as I
walk closer to the edge of the path, and avoid
looking back, I’m wondering whether my shadower

is too polite to pass, is frustrated by my
slightly slower pace (but I did make room),
or is even a friend trying to catch up
(but why don’t they call out?).

Of course, when I’m nearly there, I can’t resist
looking back; it’s no surprise that there’s
no-one but my own raised hackles. Who would
be out in this weather anyway?


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