Up the slope that leads from the platform to the station concourse a swarm of commuters bustle. In their midst, I spot a small boy, dancing along, his gait an exaggerated strut that frequently breaks into a run as he struggles to keep up with his father. The man who holds his hand is a giant; well over six feet tall and almost as wide. His hand swallows that of his son, and his long, low, loping strides are an oboe to his son’s piccolo trot.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Perambulation
Up the slope that leads from the platform to the station concourse a swarm of commuters bustle. In their midst, I spot a small boy, dancing along, his gait an exaggerated strut that frequently breaks into a run as he struggles to keep up with his father. The man who holds his hand is a giant; well over six feet tall and almost as wide. His hand swallows that of his son, and his long, low, loping strides are an oboe to his son’s piccolo trot.
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2 comments:
You certainly do have a lovely turn of phrase. I just know I'll spend the afternoon wandering around thinking of oboes and piccolos...
:-)
I have to come here more often...
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