Looking down on the water. My car parked by the wall.
Two weeks since I moved into this hotel down by the shore. It’s seen better days, but it’s still standing.
Kind of like me.
Swanky resorts are for accountants and bloodless retreats. Here, I’m meeting ghosts.
The guy smoking on the step with his pal. Or the lassie playing guitar in the bar.
I talk to them in the hallway. I hear them crying in the night. You are not forgotten.
I wonder if they say the same about me.
The breeze drifting through the open window.
I’ve got pages and time.
So far, I’ve scratched out a poem like a map back home. Hangovers and rolling stones. The place where rock and soul and country tear up the town.
Saturday nights. Sunday mornings.
The water rolls in. The water rolls out.
Life.
It doesn't give a fuck for plans. Or my hangover.
But fuck it.
What are you going to do?
I’ve seen saint Christopher this morning. Asked if I was leaving today. Wished me well and disappeared down to the the bar playing pool, or out the back with the woman from room 402.
Its time to be travelling on.
But when I go to hand in my key. Something changes my mind.
I hear the piano player, sounds like he was in a drinking competition with the piano and lost.
I walk through. A little crowd is watching.
His woman sitting beside him on the piano stool. Two alley cats singing about a street fight. But when they get their shit together the lights are blinding and it sounds like the angels sing along.
Sing one. One for me. For you. For the ghosts. The ones who didn't have a chance.
Until we fall from the light. And back to earth.
The crowd roars. We’re all standing.
The piano player and his lady nod. And smile
I wonder why they are here and not playing to a sold out concert hall.
So, I’m stepping through the door. Different now. Out to the street.
The sun disappearing behind the horizon. The beach cast in purple and orange and blue.
The sand smooth, like ice. The water breaking at the shore and the tide going out.
Like the day is in retreat.
The night is coming on. Put some music on.
The drums. The beat. The heart.
I'm travelling.
Away from the coast. Up over the hill, the rain starts and I see the city before me, where the night comes falling.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 