A.I. Couldn't Make This Up

I

Three young lads are struggling to wheel a small fridge off the tube carriage at Bank on the Northern Line. They have it balanced on a dolly but it catches on the edge of the train as they Mind The Gap! and the whole carriage holds its breath when the beeping starts - the sound that alerts you the doors are about to close. By a whisker they're through, dragging the fridge and their laughter behind them.

II

Sitting outside a coffee shop early in the morning, mindlessly scrolling the news on my phone, I’m startled by something falling on my head and into my lap: chunks of bread - white bread with the crusts still on. I look up but see nothing but blue sky. A bird sharing its breakfast? Someone in the flats above shaking their chopping board out of the window? Either way, I jot the anecdote in my notebook and mutter out loud, A.I. couldn’t make this up.

III

Wildflowers in the hedgerow are dried, faded, brittle as old silk. I run my hand through the tall grasses that rustle as frills on the hem of a long taffeta dress swishing across the ground. A magpie pulls the remnants of a sandwich from a rubbish bin and pecks at the crust.

IV

The ground is shaky beneath my feet. It’s so hot the asphalt has started to melt and crack. Ripples of sticky bitumen protrude like wing tips; tarred feathers of trapped birds trying to escape. I mind the gap between the cracks in the earth but my sandal catches on an edge and for a second I fly.

V

I’m perched on the edge of my seat in row D, holding my breath in awe as I watch a performance of traditional Kathak dance exquisitely intertwined with ancient Sufi myth. The dancer tells the story of a caged bulbul (nightingale) that sings its sweetest song as death draws near. Tears run down my face as Abi Sampa sings beauty into my ears and the dancer’s white dress swirls and lifts off from his body as if it were open wings gently carrying him skyward. Still entranced, at home I stand in front of the open fridge, exhale, and twirl around to cool myself.

VI

                          mind
                     the gap
                 between
              the cracks
            in the earth
 where black wings
             hatch from
              tarred eggs
                 to mourn
                     the end
                         times

VII

i am nature, the artist whispers to the wildflowers

we know, they answer back, come sit with us for we are the future

What an incredible joy it is to be able to make up weird stuff with my brain and share it here!

Much love

J x