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Copyright Seeing it First Hand 2026 | Theme by ThemeinProgress
Written by jackbrewis
forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless. the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle. […]
the morning’s got its claws in, a hangover sitting heavy on the brain. there’s still a little whiskey left in the blood, sloshing around in the empty tank, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit, love, life, the happiness that fucked off years ago and never sent a postcard. he’s a gentle Spaniard out of
the winter sun blasts through tinted Welsh windows, and my skin feels it all at once, sudden and warm after the cold grey miles. through the glass, the valleys roll on soft and endless, the long grass bending and lifting in the winter wind like it’s breathing slow and easy with the land. I drift
there I was, rattling along through the grey English drizzle, the underground train clicking under my feet, when I spotted her across the aisle — dark hair falling wild, eyes like midnight streets — and I leaned over, heart going that crazy beat, and asked if I could take her photo, just a quick one
the talk drags on all night, two old bastards mumbling into the black hours about pensions and politicians and how the world’s circling the drain. they never once touch the real rot — the wars that chewed up their youth, the women who walked out and never looked back. it’s a Christmas lunch, some half-arsed
I’m up on the top deck of this double-decker, stopped at a light, staring down through the piss-streaked window into a restaurant with red tablecloths and napkins folded like origami sculptures. waiters running plates, patrons shaking off the rain like wet dogs, umbrellas dumped in the corner dripping into one big grey puddle. and my
