Walking in the morning

the penultimate walk. i will come hear again but then i will be revisiting, there will be an echo of these mornings that i won't be able to ignore that will make the steps less pure.

in a story book the sun would have shone from nowhere like it does on summer mornings when the common is awake but the city is not. when you can feel wet dew between your toes because you wore sandals, even though you knew it was too cold.

in fact it was slate grey and a little bit misty but not romantically so; the air was wet but there were no drops of rain. The grass was sticky and I slid on the mud and it made me smile and miss it already. isn't it strange that something that would have annoyed you a day before can be so touching when you won't have it anymore?

the big dog i sometimes see- the one who looks more like a horse and always wants to play and never understands when some people are scared- was not there. i wish he had been because i like to play too and i know the biggest dogs have the biggest hearts. i gave him an imaginary pat on the head and hoped he would meet new friends.

of course i wouldn't have time to have thrown a stick for him because i was late but at the time and when i look back now the minutes seemed to move slowly.

then i could hear the train and I had to hurry but there was just time to look round and look at that dearest pocket of the wild that i called home.

tomorrow will be the final day and of course on final days it is like you have already moved- it's all excitement and change and hope- and you can't imagine why you thought you'd be sad.

but today was the penultimate day and so i dabbed my eyes a little on my sleeve as my feet ran from grass to concrete and from this place to the next.