Friday, 17 May 2013

Portents



Sat on the doorstep, tucked out of the morning breeze, sun on my toes. Toast with butter melting is more like pudding than breakfast, and who wouldn't want pudding for breakfast? I did not want to leave my deeply sleepy bed, this is like a reward.

Sat, legs lolling, in the lounger with sun on my face; cold coffee to hand, and a book. Washing moves on the rotary line. The lines sag with wet weight. Rain speckles on the page.


Sat on the sofa, barefoot, with a layer of warm jumper, with the book. Each sentence gets re-read: the thunder is distracting. I have hot coffee and marshmallows in an earthenware pot. All so sweet, and bitter, with these words on Bronze age wonders and watching to see if the sky will split.


Heart catches in throat: exactly how it feels: a gag of emotion from which inarticulate sound squeezes. At the roundabout, driving home, one glimpse of shocking red sunset.


One carmine glass of wine waits on my writing desk. 




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