buckie at a close door

I went out searching for the rising sun after Festive Friday. Curtains of rain draped the air and the grey sloosh of puddle weary traffic thinned out and drained away my hopes of a golden sky.

So heading home I passed a close door. A thin strip of light, the warm horizon I had hoped for. At the door, a Buckie booby trap for the first soujourner of the day.

I imagine the rush out the door. The Christmas present panic strides. Then the connection, a dunt of the bottle, the kinetic early morning noise alarm of glass yielding to pavement. Green splinters of glass, the ruby red flecks of the tonic wine. A night doused in a syrup blur, a morning shattered awake. 

I wonder whether to move the bottle out of harm's way. The street will be full of shoppers. Broken glass on the pavement will not help.

So I take the shot. And I leave the bottle to its story.


Advent 20