Shoes

Start with a daffodil. Today's bunch, new, sitting in the terracotta jug from Provence I was given as a leaving present from the wholefood shop back in West London in the early '90s. This particular daffodil is newly seized by the impulse to open, has just swollen enough to push aside the brownish sheath that has protected it like a stocking mask. It is narrow, small still, but now begins to hint at yellow. Tomorrow or the next day all this will be forgotten, the final flourish of flower will become familiar for a few days, seeming stable in that incarnation, until the edges of the petals slowly begin to dry and curl, the colour to lose its initial vibrancy.

I use the daffodil like the ground beneath my feet, like the in and out of my breath, to try and bring myself back to the moment, to the page, or the compose box, the bright white of the screen. Here I am, here, tonight, a strange season that is neither spring nor summer as we usually understand them but a curious hybrid, hot sun on as yet unopened leaves  in the valley, daffodils on the verges, viewed through a rolled-down car window. Here, with Mingus's Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife playing, and a phone-call from one of L's sisters to say their mother is out of hospital, her blood sugar once again stabilised. And my mother earlier on the phone, not entirely remembering the content of a doctor's appointment whose details I already know from my sister's email, but remembering that she forgot to talk to the doctor about her memory. Laughing with me at that.

L at the pub with her bee group, preparing to join one of the teams of bee handlers, after her training over the last few weekends. L drinking beer, me a glass of white wine. How did this evening gesture creep back in? Warm as summer, I throw off the duvet in the night, but the forecast suggests wintry showers are possible next week in the far north, but doesn't say how far.

One of my poet friends has a new collection out, and I write the launch date in my diary, feeling that acid blend of pride and envy. Easy on the envy. I did have an idea for a poem two nights ago and it had to do with time and length. I wrote down a few words in the notebook beside my bed, given to me by L in my Christmas stocking, empty until then. Time and length. Length of time. The endlessness of separation.

I have not filled the tank of my car with petrol. I have no need to drive anywhere for some days. We were going away for the weekend, but L is recovering from a knee injury, so we stay at home. To me this sounds like music. Nowhere to get to, even a pleasant destination. Home, and peace, and the notebook.

Glow

The bright crescent moon, a shining fingernail, floats in a sky of blue ink, with its companion planets. Just a breath of wind now. My face glows from sun worthy of July.

All Over

The past is all over me like a rash
like an ache
I'm in school uniform,
I'm in Doc Martens,
I'm crossing the road at the lights near that flat,
waiting for the postman day after day in another,
running down three flights of stairs
to see what he has brought me,
waiting for my mother, in a house I scarcely remember,
to return from hospital to pick me up,
which she can't.

This Wednesday in March must be about my 200th.

Half And Half

Equinox: when the tilt of the earth's axis is inclined neither away from nor towards the sun. 


The sun has shone in at the windows, first one, then the other, this equinox -
the centre of the sun is in the same plane as the equator
and we're in balance, twelve hours dark twelve hours light.


I live on a planet that spins in space, held here by gravity.
They broke it to me gently when I was five years old
in brown school uniform. It's a spinning ball, going round the sun.
God!

Try

Is there something I'm not saying? Waking up and trying to remember all the dreams in which I was on the wrong train with the wrong ticket, unable to gather my possessions quickly enough to get off the train in order to catch another one going back the other way.

A scarf over the back of a chair can break your heart.

Tomorrow the vernal equinox.

Search

Daffodils in a vase on the table, like dancers with their arms out, hands spread, a flourish, a fanfare. The sun catches them morning and afternoon, through the two windows and they glow, transfigured.

I feel dull and can't lead myself out of a small enclosure.

I sip sauvignon blanc, plan to eat apple crumble, to search for holiday cottages.

Dancing

I stand in front of a wood burning stove, dancing very slightly, my back to the heat, looking out at rain and blossoms, hearing accordion music and the voices of friends. The smell of baked potatoes and apple crumble. Cats asleep on the sofas.

Riz

It's
light at 6.30 at both ends of the day
sometimes warm enough without the heating
time to plan a holiday
almost a year since I went out Census collecting

There are
broad bean seeds germinating in pots
tiny flies with wide wings on the lane
goldfinches in the garden
cows in the field
daffodils on the verges
blossoms on the trees
sparrows viewing our nesting box

Lamb

March comes in like a lamb, with the first sunshine, as I open the curtains, for more than a week. Forecast is for sleet on Sunday, however! I'm off down south for a couple of days to see my mother. A new chapter begins.