Reid & Robie

Signs, signs, everywhere there’s signs. – Tesla

The signs were all around.

Arriving in Liverpool toward the end of summer, Robie and I were happy to be anywhere it wasn’t scorching hot. So, when strangers stopped us in the park or on a street corner to comment on the beautiful day, we could only agree. The skies above Liverpool were blue, the air a warm 80 degrees and a cool sea breeze blew constantly.

Brightly painted, double decker buses zipped around town filled with Chinese tourists or white-haired people on Beatlemania tours. Liverpool ONE, the reimagined shopping and entertainment center in the heart of the city, was hopping. And throngs of people sat in the city’s beer gardens enjoying sudsy pints.

But after weeks of exploring Liverpool, things began to change.

Across the street, the lights came on at Archbishop Blanch Academy as girls wearing pleated skirts and crested jackets suddenly appeared each morning. Restaurants promoted student specials while university students carrying bookbags marched up and down SmithDown Road. Liverpool ONE wasn’t so crowded, dogs showed up wearing sweaters in Everton blue or Liverpool red, and though the pubs were still packed, the throngs had moved indoors.

Despite having just arrived, already the days were getting shorter, the leaves were turning gold, and the sky was more dull-grey than blue. Then came a note from one of Robie’s friends perfectly capturing the transformation.

Evening comes rapidly when the year begins to die – when the leaves have all turned and the grass bows against the wind and there’s no memory of spring despite the gold left behind by the sun in its setting.

Evening comes, not with the shadows but a slow killing of the lights… and when the light has gone, the trees grow larger and streets become tunnels and porches on old houses no longer hold the swings and the rockers and the warm summer calls to come away, come and sit, and watch for a while.

And when the sidewalks are empty and the cars have all been parked and the only sign of movement is a leaf scratching at the curb, there are the sounds, the night sounds, the last sounds before the end – of wings dark over rooftops, of footsteps soft around the corner, of something clearing its throat behind the hedge near the streetlamp where white becomes a cage and the shadows seldom move.

There are stars.

There is a moon.

There are late August wishes and early June dreams that slip out of time and float into the cold that turn dew to frost and hardens the pavement, give echoes blade edges and make children’s laughter seem too close to screams.

In the evening; never morning.

When the year begins to die.

– “Screaming in the Dark” from The Orchard by Charles L. Grant

With summer swiftly dying and her warmth bleeding out into fall, the new season signaled another change. For two nomads without a residence or home address, the chill air meant our days in Liverpool were nearing an end.

It was time to move on.

Poem courtesy of Ed Yarb. Thanks, Ed!