A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun

The long road

Many days later.

The longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun

Thick black curls roll in waves across the
Brown gold surface to her back, a t-shirt adrift
While with the slightest movements
Julie Ro drops down through the gears
Her Bonneville’s exhaust crackling beneath the
Thunder to its heart’s compression
Together they swing off the highway,
A long way from the far north Canadian Rocky’s,
Dust and pebbles flick up as deceleration kicks in,
Down between the stationary road rigs
These juggernauts of long haul men, women,
And a few others, some dormant

Some bursting to life, and the odd few rolling out,
Returning to the wylie black top
A highway from once they came in their
Endless rumble through the isolation to night
Julie Ro cuts a slow path amongst the
Giants emerging out from their parallel tales
To reveal a large group of buildings,
A truck stop, the last of the roadhouses before
Ten or so miles to a border, in the look forward
To make haste down below the equator
Pointing the Bonneville at a vacant pump,
Julie Ro pulls up alongside, dragging the bike

Up on to its stand as her slim six foot Maori frame
Unwinds from the early morning’s miles
Where the past night’s feet find the cradle of the
Earth once more on dust covered concrete
Coated by the winds to early Autumn’s (Fall’s)
Favour in a day’s rolling start beneath a ten degree sun
Before long, Julie Ro quenches the Bonneville’s thirst
From its journey, covers the two score or so feet
Making an exchange, a hand full of US for fuel and
A bottle of water with a little time to breathe
To roam around a few corners, in search for the
Bathroom when passing a woman, she’s singing,

Humming notes, and writing them down in a notebook.
Sing it out loud sista, get it down, and let it run
Julie Ro says, as both women exchange smiles, and
Continue on their individual paths as a sun
Clocks eleven degrees to a distant horizon,
More dust dances to the songs along the road giant lines
Rounding the last, through a swinging door, and
There she was, a solemn empty stare right back at
Her, tangled red hair, small tears rolling down her cheeks.
They’re all gone, they’re all gone, and
This road I’m on, now grinds to a halt. Who’s all gone?
As Julie Ro washes her hands, the women

Stares at her through the mirror, tears still meandering
Tender contours to her face. Everything, all I want
Is out, as far south, as far south as I can go.
Listen, Sista, the luck of the peaceful ocean is with you today,
And with just few shots more in conversation, the girl,
Such a silent women grabs a bag from a stall, as Julie Ro takes
Her by the hand exiting the bathroom, silent a woman
Trailing after her as they walk, direct, almost in slow-motion
Back out from around the corner on a
Clear path towards the Bonneville, not a word is spoken, not a
Sound, the world seems silent around both Julie Ro,
And the women, a stranger, her tears slipping beneath the silence

Beneath a twelve degree sun as they come
To pause at the pump, in one movement Julie Ro
Turns as the woman hands her the bag, it contents
Split between the Bonneville’s saddle bags, finaly in
Leaving an empty atop the pump as the keys slip into the
Ignition, both women mount up to go, as Julie Ro pockets
The stand beneath the Bonneville’s belly, sounds,
A crackle to the exhaust, and thunder in its heart, life
Breathes for the road once more, a company of three,
Wait no longer for a transit sun, the vast journey South
Taking a few moments more, Julie Roe ties her long
Black curls back in a ponytail, fastened in four

Places as it stretches the length along her spine,
To then with the silent women at her back, she looks
Up once more, to see a thirteen degree sun, passing
In time with the day, a share to distant southern roads ahead,
Pulling away the roadhouse, behind the dust to distances,
Slices awake upon seeking a silence between each stories’ movement
Once more until day for Julie Ro slips, sinks a slowed momentum
Before too long finds its way passing into the strange of night
With the silent women in hours for miles across days,
A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun..


6 responses to “A longing goodbye to a thirteen degree sun

    • Thanks, Sky, I like the flow, it was kind of written with eyes closed, just watching, and listening, with a few peaks here and there to be sure I was still on the page…

      The previous post was the thoughts behind the inner workings the tale, so it came out in a set fashion, but the post above is the way the story was intended translate, with less reveal, and some better visual props a few days later. Cheers!

    • Thank you, Aquileana.. It’s getting better the more I close my eyes, to listen how a story holds water in the escape from parched air πŸ™‚

      Cheers, Sean

  1. I should give it a shot – writing with my eyes closed. Maybe, just maybe I could come up with something lovely like this piece of yours. πŸ™‚

    The photo you used above: Such exquisite clouds in contrast to the brown earth. Wow.

    • Why not, having your eyes close while writing’s not that hard, but worlds do open. While writing the above, I came to think of different sounds, and perspectives, aspects, while being slack on scents, taste, and touch. That’s okay though, partial sensory deprivation can shift poetry in different directions. I don’t know, but sometime I think it’s about falling right inside the world your writing, and what you’ve experienced. Different experiences 9physical ones in the world) help alot πŸ™‚

      A little short on photos at the moment, so I’ve been recycling again. The location is on the way out to a point between river and sea. Thanks for taking some time out to have a read, and comment. Appreciated πŸ™‚

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