Bats

Sweaty bats gliding through an Autumn-Magic sunset, their kiwi-rat bodies glinting over the tips of dark and meaningless houses- unbothered and unspied, only by me and my tired eyes and sore arm.

They are numerous, scattered like pepper sprinkles, dotted over a sheet and I recall with a painful wince the detail – the ache in my hand holding that fountain pen so steadily, its slim knib slowly cutting and dragging at the droopy blobs of tar that never had time to harden.

Bats – gloopy and inky for me – I just wipe my hand over the page and distort the sky I spent so long to colour in purple.

I wish I could’ve done more, I wish I had known to try. And maybe that’s mankinds biggest flaw. Wondering why we were never given the answers to questions we forgot to ask

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