Ascension Avenue

All that was holy died in resplendence. kerbstones bit gutters and gutters sucked road, black and white zebra stripes buried by snowflakes, wires fizzed and snapped as their cups overflowed. Cars lay abandoned, the milk float down-charged, four-by-four mega trucks grounded and still, seagulls kept guard on memorial statues, screeched at the sea that lay over the hill. Behold velvet drapes flanking twitchy lace curtain, knuckles clenched white whilst brows knitted grey, women of substance blew tea in bone china, until it fell cool at the passing of day. All lowered eyes to the carpet and skirting, fingers flicked lint more imagined than real, from the cuffs of their blouses, the plaid of their skirts, substitution for anything human to feel. She who self-hanged in the cramped bedroom closet, hands dangled lifelessly down by her side, lips black and swollen, ghost kissing conscience, tongue poking purple and eyes staring wide. The avenue drowned in a quagmire of quiet, decency nailed to each window and door, Winter would pass, taking with it the memory, for what, more or less, is another dead whore? Spring is the mistress of life and vivacity, Summer the passion child, sweet honey breath, Autumn the lover whose time is expiring, Then pale mistress Winter, and Winter is death.