Three and a half years ago, I wrote about a place in Northampton called 'The Racecourse' that was a nice place by day, but dangerous and to be avoided by night. This held a lot of symbolism for me, so I wrote and recorded this. Thanks for reading.
The Racecourse
Do
you walk dogs, or do dogs walk you? That's what I was thinking.
Swaying on those swings – rusted and immaturely coloured with reds
and blues. Those creaky chains could resist the wind, but not my
weight. I wasn't swaying forwards and backwards, as it was more of a
side-to-side; my mind was peaceful – simple. Noticing the childish
smoke from my mouth, I pretended to be a dragon in the way that had
always been funny since I was little.
It
was a heavily coated dog, walking a heavily coated man. That's what
it was. The dog had a jovial bounce to his step – somewhat of a
skipping child on four legs. He was as fluffy and grey as the looming
clouds. A dark night threatened. The man tailed a rigid trail
behind; he definitely wasn't in control. I stared out to the mass of
open space peering closely at the hiding spots: trees that could hold
dens or hills to roll down. The Racecourse was so innocent and vague;
there were fewer things more sinister.
Guess
who I felt sorry for most, though? Those information signs that act
so self-importantly. They sit and tell you things, constantly - sat
gleaming their information to deaf ears and dull minds. Who was
really going to stop and hear them out in that kind of cold? Must be
hard to have a job. Or at least a boring one where you slave away the
majority of your waking life to a cause that isn't your own. Those
kinds of people probably cross through places like the The Racecourse
every day in an attempt at being punctual. I doubt they even stop to
look at the monotonous, striving, aimless field.
The
signs probably should quit their jobs. They won't, though, because
they work to live their ever extending life. You have to admire their
persistence, calling out to happily married couples romancing hand in
hand – clearly enjoying the rest of their lives so much more than
the signs. I wondered how old they were – when does a sign retire,
anyway?
So
many leaves on the ground from the time of year. Some of the leaves
had a youthful shade of white spread over them as if trying to dye
their 'greying' hair. Hiding from their own mortality. Brown must be
a dull colour for a leaf; morbid and dry. Sometimes the wind would
carry them speedily along as if chasing a hearse: 'Take me with you'
they'd whisper in the despair of the night. At first they lose their
tree, and then the death of darkness has to plague them, destroying
their overt attempts at being innocent and pure. When the scythe
strikes, The Racecourse wins.
I
wonder if the dog made his way home? I bet the man got enough
exercise. I made my own way home before dark, it's not quite my time,
yet.
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