: The overflow valve for my mind
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Sitting in the garden
and my mind overflowed into here

Sitting in the darkness, in the garden, on the quiet decking, listening, thinking.

In the distance the ongoing throb of traffic heading to places unknown and on journeys of differing importance. Closer by a car door slams. The engine remains idling, dropping off a passenger, or a quick errand? I donít know. Iím just the impartial listening observer.

Another door slams, an engine starts. The car pulls away, then locally all is quiet; other than the passing car.

Overhead a plane, its four engines in unison, travels on. Is it bringing home travellers, or is it the start of their journey? On clear evenings I would see that plane and be able to say whether it is heading to the airport or away. Iíd even see how long a delay it would have as I can see the stacks circling the airfield. Tonight that plane cannot be seen from here, the clouds are low.

Those low clouds are orange. Light pollution from our towns fills the sky. In front of me the houses are silhouetted against an orange glow. Itís not an angry glow such as youíd see from a fire, more a townís backlight. A soft tone bulb in the lampshade of the area. In front of my eyes, between houses, a single solitary street light glares. A pin prick of pain that irritates my eye. If not for that the view would be peaceful.

Not as peaceful as the atmosphere, that is spoilt by yet another car passing. The muted noise of music beats past. More traffic pauses at the junction and the distant roar has not subsided.

A siren breaks into the surroundings. Somebodyís in trouble. Is that a siren going to help, or pursuing the perpetrator? It fades away.

Voices outside, visitors to a neighbour.

A heavy diesel engine travels up the road ahead. Is it a delivery lorry? I think not, itís nearly eight on a Saturday evening. More likely to be a workman heading home, or is it a van full of the days trading heading home so the driver can store away his goods?

So much to hear, so much to wonder about, so much to quietly sit and observe.

A dog barks, is it calling for a walk, or warning of an intruder? A door squeaks. More voices outside. An evening out, a visitor arrives, or is it the end of the day at Grandmaís?

For me, its time to stop listening. The evening meal cannot wait. The meat is nearly done, the veg needs preparing.


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