This morning, on this first day of gratitude, I am grateful for my breath.
In and out and up she rises.
For a moment loving and nourishing me alone
and then leaving,
just for a moment
before returning replenished.
My breath, connecting me to all things.
My breath connects me to the earth and the rich warm smell of the earth, to rain and to the possibility of rain, to my neighbour’s bonfire, and to the other neighbours’ dogs. To little birds, to people everywhere, to the mighty old trees crowding the sky down by the river.
In and out, here now and gone again and here, now and now and now,
my breath, your breath,
My pen suspended above the page,
But the words don’t come.
Dear Caroline, I often think of the things we did and said together, remember leaping out at the traffic passing by your home and flashing at the traffic in retaliation for being flashed at ourselves by a random in the park. Snort. Remember calling Radio 10 (!) and requesting stuff using silly accents or totally mispronouncing the band names. Remember you trying to get a discount at Oktoberfest for getting a sausage without the bun. God you were embarrassing. Logical, but embarrassing. And you had that foul almost-neon-orange cardigan that washed the colour entirely from your face – did your mother buy it for you to match your orange hair?
Well, last year I saw a cardigan very similar (though not neon) in a shop and I had to walk in and grab it by the end of the arm and give it a little squeeze – and then I found myself buying the bloody thing.
And I wear it though it zaps all the colour from my face except the broken capillaries on my nose and the dark spots under my chin.
It really is very unattractive.
And yet I cling to it like
I should have clung to you.
Drab little bird of brown and blue
your mate is dressed in a brilliant hue,
so why does he stay so close to you?
‘He honours the power of my song
for when the fearful night is done
I sing the rising of the sun.’
1. And in the September of 2015 I sayeth to my Dave ‘If you thinketh we are going to cart all this adjective adjective junk to the new house where it will sit for years and years you can thinketh again. 2. And Dave thinketh again and we moveth the adjective adjective junk. 3. And I said there will cometh a kerbside pickup and if you haven’t done anything with the adjective adjective junk we will put it out to the kerb. 4. Dave agreed. 5 And it cameth to pass. Indeed the adjective adjective junk has not seen the light of day since it was delivered to the new house. 6. And yea! the kerbside pickup hath been announced for Monday 10 July in the 2017th year of Our Lord. 7. And I will be delivered from rusty bikes, legs without chairs, the heads of fans and dusty boxes of cords and plugs to which we know not what they belongeth. 8. Yea! 9. You bloody ripper! 10. Amen!
– your clothes lying on the bathroom floor
I have not seen you in an age.
I have not felt the warmth of your hand.
your crumpled clothes on the floor
the tv on in the far room
I’m missing the warmth of you
– my foot explores your body’s imprint in our mattress
the glow and hum of the tv
your footsteps passing down the hall
and I wonder how we might reconnect