Poems: | Listen to Your Manager | Your Smile | On the Beach at New Quay | Banana | While Waiting |
Stories: | Dream Team | The Dog Who Cried Custard | Bags of Inspiration | Time Flies |
While waiting at the publishing house, the author has a curious experience
I arrived just as everyone
was going home for the night,
another good day's work completed.
I sat down to wait in the foyer –
well, atrium actually. I looked up and up
at floor upon foliage-fringed floor
until my eyes arrived at the apex
of the glass roof, where they rested a moment,
while I wondered who washed it or, indeed,
if anyone did. Then my gaze slid
down to light on a small tree opposite.
I slumped deeper into the large mud-brown sofa
and waited, listening to the sounds of parting:
doors opened and slammed shut with abandon,
free-at-last footsteps clanged down the metal stairwell,
shards of happy chatter dropped, shattered,
a man with a heavy limp click-clacked across the wooden floor,
good nights were offered, returned.
And I sat waiting, my eyes fixed on the small green tree.
All around me the world was moving, leaving,
and I, rooted there, leafing.
By the time someone came to fetch me,
I had turned into a tree.