Oxley Ln

Tree-lined and hemmed by footpath, Oxley Lane awoke to a bluster of wind drawn from the mountains and caught the faint drops of dew-frost in its passing.  Gumnuts, past blossom and dry from the winter’s retreat, are shaken from their branches and fall, softly dropping upon the parked cars below, the hollow ding against windscreen and roof rousing the labrador of number fourteen: a single woof all the old dog can muster as it returns again to dream on the front veranda.
The pastel blue sky emerges from its slumber, morning stretching and radiator clicking as the air becomes colder. The city can be heard distantly in this quiet, the first serenade of traffic, the melody of the nearby station’s speaker as a train prepares to depart from the platform.
Magpies warble and pigeons coo. A line of cyclists ease down the lane with ticking wheel and aching knee. It is quiet, the day awakens slowly.

Staccato clicks alongside rushing gas. A range sparks into life and a kettle is placed to boil. The aroma of breakfast floats from the newly painted café on Oxley Lane’s corner. A wooden spoon knocks roughly upon bench and pan and the noise is doubled by other kitchens along the lane. A serenade of frying and boiling, of plates being withdrawn from cupboards, of families sitting down to talk.
The shadows of branches beside the cafe flutter, disturbing the early dawn and washing through its front window, leading its pattern to dance upon the wooden floor as if lost in lake-song. A bell rings as a door creaks upon its hinge, greetings are swapped with weary smile.

Further along the lane, a kestrel lands upon a railing and preens in the morning sun, its brown pitted feathers seeming to glow in the dawn-light as if fire cast in amber.  
It looks up suddenly, a dragonfly or passing insect catching its eye and then takes off as quickly as it had just landed. Nearby a crow caws, the call echoing up the street and signalling the herald of day in mimicry of a conductor before an orchestra. Noise becomes a blanket in this moment. The individual melodies are woven again and again until they are no longer recognisable. They knit and mesh as morning’s march continues, the sun rising ever higher in the winter sky.     

The people of Oxley Lane rise too.
Running down the steps of their terraced home, the painter of number Six, skips across the moss lined bricks and reaches their letterbox unsure if they are falling or still in momentum.
Grabbing the fence, they catch themselves with a spin and hurriedly pace back up the path again, the haze of late-night inspiration meaning that they had forgotten to lock the door.
They stop to talk with a neighbour now at work in their own garden, they lock the door, their day can now begin.

Limping with ache, the rugby player of number Fifteen, sneezes and feels their back rebel against the sudden lurch. Are they hungover, they wonder in a moment of frozen agony. Had the consideration of sleeping on the couch left them with the flu?
“Get milk too.” A familiar calls from the house within. They raise a hand. This will be a long walk.

Whistling, the clerk of number Ten pulls a woolly hat of reds and whites down over frizzy hair and then searches for warmth in the pockets of their jacket. With each breath, a small plume of condensation is puffed out along with their song. A cloud following along as they hurriedly make their way off to work.
With a splutter, the engine of a car fires into fullness and the burbling motor whines, coughing out its own cloud. The driver, waves at the clerk and offers their neighbour a lift, even though they are already running late for their own work.
The labrador of Fourteen opens an eye and watches the car pull slowly away from the street with a tired sigh.

The lane now ages with the day. In early afternoon the paling of light will lead its residents to huddle around the warmth of kinship and home. The busy world outside this terraced lane may be cluttered and full, but for the residents who know this lane as their datum, it will remain as a peaceful nook of a town within a metropolis. It will remain beyond this morning and beyond the next score of those that follow.
Home is so rarely found on a city street but by the parentheses of two street signs, Oxley Lane will be remembered as so.

~

J. McCray
2024