Five Days And One Night In A Dowdy Summer
Where clouds are rift, blue shows. Rain holds. Air holds damp, birdsong, scents of earth. Palette of the day, silver-greys, green, dots of bright flower.
A heart is prised open, this beauty stuffed in. Seeking remedy, not respite.
Yesterday was sun and rain. Foxgloves, bolt upright, held their colour. I stole a rose to make tea; first to breathe the steam, then to sip. I had coffee, rich and deep. I had banana tea, sweet and cheerful.
This morning the sky is variant silver.
Coffee brews. Wild strawberry pancakes on the hob; one gets burnt when Dog gives chase to a cat and must be herself chased back inside perimeters.
Dog feels sorry for herself, confined. We pretend stern.
Petal frail, she sends apologies: I can’t do anything, she says.
But you’ve done it all, we say, it’s our turn now and that’s how it comes to balance.
Granma Grace smiles. I like her without the dentures, somehow, it represents her being her, no matter what is reduced; that kind spirit being irreducible.
It’s not good for you, I know, I say, just good for us, we finally get to give back to you some of what you have given to us, do you see? She practically guffaws, pats my hand.
‘My grandson told me that, the same thing,’ she says.
I tell his father those words on the way home.
He need say nothing, only watch ahead.
Sunset’s fingers touch each car - transmute, melt to gold, and in granite hills flowers bloom.
Earth winnows into butterflies; dark underwings that smudge in this air.
Evidence of badgers; Dog stands, tail awag, over her finding: one well seeded turd.
Evidence of foxes: leftover feathers.
The crop-cover leaves: part-wild, tangle-pretty.
Here a horizon is heavy, and hazy, is a field of blue flowers blending to sky.
A noise in the night was a thing pushed over -fallen over?
Until I went to investigate, and it wasn’t.
A second noise was a shotgun.
A vermin shoot?
From the window, then, as the rain taps, as a pale rose ghosts against the glass, I spy fireworks. I don’t what was celebrated, down beyond the trees, only that I laughed, and stood to be surprised.
Early morning, bright sun piercing.
Early afternoon, we are walking, Dog is running: down by Roadford Lake, eating ice cream in the rain.
A roast dinner cooks.
A waterlily flowers.
A heart is prised open, this beauty stuffed in. Seeking remedy, not respite.
Yesterday was sun and rain. Foxgloves, bolt upright, held their colour. I stole a rose to make tea; first to breathe the steam, then to sip. I had coffee, rich and deep. I had banana tea, sweet and cheerful.
This morning the sky is variant silver.
Coffee brews. Wild strawberry pancakes on the hob; one gets burnt when Dog gives chase to a cat and must be herself chased back inside perimeters.
Dog feels sorry for herself, confined. We pretend stern.
Petal frail, she sends apologies: I can’t do anything, she says.
But you’ve done it all, we say, it’s our turn now and that’s how it comes to balance.
Granma Grace smiles. I like her without the dentures, somehow, it represents her being her, no matter what is reduced; that kind spirit being irreducible.
It’s not good for you, I know, I say, just good for us, we finally get to give back to you some of what you have given to us, do you see? She practically guffaws, pats my hand.
‘My grandson told me that, the same thing,’ she says.
I tell his father those words on the way home.
He need say nothing, only watch ahead.
Sunset’s fingers touch each car - transmute, melt to gold, and in granite hills flowers bloom.
Earth winnows into butterflies; dark underwings that smudge in this air.
Evidence of badgers; Dog stands, tail awag, over her finding: one well seeded turd.
Evidence of foxes: leftover feathers.
The crop-cover leaves: part-wild, tangle-pretty.
Here a horizon is heavy, and hazy, is a field of blue flowers blending to sky.
A noise in the night was a thing pushed over -fallen over?
Until I went to investigate, and it wasn’t.
A second noise was a shotgun.
A vermin shoot?
From the window, then, as the rain taps, as a pale rose ghosts against the glass, I spy fireworks. I don’t what was celebrated, down beyond the trees, only that I laughed, and stood to be surprised.
Early morning, bright sun piercing.
Early afternoon, we are walking, Dog is running: down by Roadford Lake, eating ice cream in the rain.
A roast dinner cooks.
A waterlily flowers.
Comments