For what it's worth
By Parson Thru
Catching the last of Thursday’s sun in a park whose name I can’t remember.
A short walk from the flat.
The golden light and drab reminds me of Airfix aeroplanes. Spitfires and Hurricanes.
Despite the M-30 motorway, whose cars stream below in evening sun
and Madrid’s suburban sprawl across the way, the park’s a sanctuary of calm.
Lycra galgos jog along the paths to burn away their stress.
A woman in slo-mo replay makes her steady progress.
Clumps of daffodils droop their heads behind the bench. I’m surprised to see them.
An apology from N for forgetting the anniversary.
Eight years. My mam won’t remember now, and I’m not going to spoil her day.
We remember him anyway. We remember all of them. There’s no set time.
Our lives are populated with the living and the dead.
The sun has sunk behind me. Behind the trees and tiered apartments. Behind the monuments of Los Austrias, the pines of Casa de Campo, communities of Carabanchel and Móstoles. I feel the chill and watch the shadow creep across the cars, gain the far embankment, climb Ventas’ brick facades, where it pauses, defines a world of brilliance and shade.
One, two, three, four… Narcissus regards his aural self. Feeding his delusion.
Not sure how much time is left. The light goes quickly here. I think it’s time to move.