it’s 5pm and a phone call from my mother.
she’s sitting outside bare feet, smoking a cigarette, inhaling, eyes closed, savouring the afternoon. the trees skyline set on light blues and a mountain’s sihouette.
the dogs are rolling around the large stretch of grass in front of her and the air is filled with various tweets and buzzing. everyone is singing their early evening song.
i can see her wrinkled face and salted hair, absorbing spring after what has felt like a long winter. ice clangs softly in her goblet as her aged hand pulls the cigarette closer for another
she hangs up and i’m back in London’s autumn.