The one that got away

I wrote a little piece of Flash in my head on the bus today, coming down Leslie by the side of Wilket Creek, one of my favourite stretches of road for its smooth downhill cruise, a rare curve in a city of straight ups and downs.

I was holding my phone in my hand, thinking get it down now, the words are there. But I didn't. And now it's a fading thing and when I try to write it, it will be an anemic version of what I held then in my mind, watching the trees pass and knowing there were stables down there too, with conker horses who might nuzzle the crook of my neck.

This is always writing for me; degrees of removal from the bright thing in my mind, like a fish that loses its colour out of water. But I try to hold onto the words anyway, and occasionally I capture the glimmer. And there are plenty more fish in the sea. That too. Shoals of words in gloaming seas.

But always too the feeling that today; that was the one that got away.
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