f o r g i v e n e s s

b y   A n d r e w   L o v a t t

he arrived at forgiveness in the harsh, white northern steppes, after the towns called bitterness and regret. forgiveness lay around the edge of the lake of grieving, and on clearer days you could still see other towns near across the other side.

the train exhaled and enveloped itself in steamy obscurity, grunting and shunting like a huge metal horse straining at the bit and determined to journey on to the end of the line. a voyage out of here to some nebulous there. an undefined adventure.

the steam swirled and he alighted to find the ground packed with ice and snow, the vapours sticking to his face and beard and turning to icicles within seconds. his breath mingled with the iron smell enveloped in the steam. the machine hissed and hawed. figures appeared and passed in the swirl, crunching their feet on the relentless crystal ground.

the guard shouted muffled notices of intention that no one could properly understand. the inevitable moving on of things and objects. even death is a movement in time. voices drifted with the figures or trailed after them, hinting echoes of the past and the reason for coming to forgiveness.

he crunched his way through the white steam towards the station all encrusted in snow and ice, with only it’s chimney spilling smoke into the white featureless sky. he would have a glass of hot vodka and ask the way to redemption from here.

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[ 21.08.02 newbridge ]

copyright © 2003
andrew lovatt

photo: winter sleeping by sarah mcdermott