Writing on the Wall

it’s mid-morning, a warm wind clings,
loosely fills and flaps the folded sunshades long lapels,
evasively hovers between mating butterflies,
then rises into a thronging twitter of new-flown
house-martins jetting in blue air.

By my open door sit three carriers
they burst with shrubs to be planted.
Radio 4 speaks ‘double-dip recession‘,
words and birdsong merge,
gloss on fruiting apples,
in shade a rhythmic flick of horse-tails
swat each others flies.

This is today, the cat is at the vets.
I await results. Houseplants look dry.
Neglect nags with dishes in the sink.
The computer screen shines bright;
photos from the day before hide concentration;
the life model, studies made, a festive meal,

but this is today. White hot on paper.
It glints and winks on silver bangles.
Is warm in black cat fur on a bleached bench.

Today is patient with knowledge,
that I pick from possibilities,
from a bouquet tossed to stretched hands
pushing out of nights chrysalis.

Awkward legs swing down,
bare feet touch cold tiles
take the days weight on
standing heals spreading toes.
Awake in moments between steps,
between thoughts,
between breaths.
Those pauses that say,
you’re here,
this is today.

…..now in summer this single girl needs something to do, and a fruity weekend is a big temptation.

So here it is in photos and there’s still Sunday to come.
 
The birds left some cherries for me on my small tree.
Hugely abundant this year with its fat red beads.
Blackcurrants dangled grapelike as they fought for sun through the nettles beneath the apple tree and have rendered me five pots of jelly-jam.
Not totally sure it has set though.
 
The Buddha bed has a flourish of raspberries that grew themselves.
The rain plumped them and in an hour of afternoon sun between showers, permitted picking.
Pulling them off, my hands cupped them gently, and filled, in this soft hold with juicy fruit.
I will bake a sweet butter-base using corn flour and ground almonds. Allow it to cool and cover with the raspberries. Maybe get some cream… yum.
 
The rosy cherries, pairs I will hook gypsy fashion on my ears, others I’ll eat raw.
 
And must squeeze in some other jobs,
check on the poorly cat, Mitsie, also fix the hem of my skirt for Tango tonight and now on radio 4’s Saturday Womans Hour they are discussing Mens Hour.
 
Well I could spare a few minutes,
after all  I am feeling fruity…

It’s early.
Time to leave.
I go,
lay by your door an envelope,
sat shyly to one side and on the floor.
When you awake
you’ll  take note, read,
not see me as remote and
feel  glad, optimistic
and  not sad that I have gone.
You sleep on
pillows of affection left behind.
Our shared time;
cherry blossom.
Regents Park picnics and Pelicans.
The Queens Gallery collection
viewed at three,
with free head phone talks.
Weekend rail-closures.
Walks.
Red-riding buses
with hoods up top.
Three, grace us with readings of
 their poetry in pubs.
It’s all non-stop.
A river trip to Greenwich in the rain,
almost missed Nautical treasures at five
in painted pillared marbled halls.
Lightening on Primrose Hill.
Lost in sixties concrete,
found finches tuning base guitars; the Barbican.
Swan lake,
the Coliseum’s culture fill.
Champagne, flowers, dining in.
Gassed by Borough Market cooking beef.
Revived by veg’ and fruit and cheese but
bored by baubles’.

Starbucks for net-connections,
coffees teas.
At sunset,
crowded in the pod
watch lamplighters
flick switches underground
light bridges, towers, domes,
St Paul’s Westminster.
 Like slow- sprinkled glitter
sparkling on spreading city air.
Seen from Peter Pan’s deep sky,
we celebrate this from
The London Eye.

‘Wordsworth’s reflecting river’s never still.
Dear God, his every building’s wide awake,
this mighty heart expressing all our will.’

The birthday visit list complete,
(no wonder you’re asleep).
Big heap of  thank you.
 And-
could we arrange another date to meet?

Hear Beverley read this poem (mp3)