I’ve had blog block…that and an operation (routine, fine).
I had started to think that the general anaesthetic had erased the part of my brain which makes things…..no poems, no frocks, no embroidery, cake still possible but that’s just following a recipe…..
And then….I had a coffee (it’s not that unusual, in fact it happens daily) with the Voice of Sanity at the lovely Hand Made Food caff in the village and we laughed a lot and normality began to resume (with the help of The Divine Comedy played at full blast) and this came out….
We compared stitching notes
she and I
after I’d been in and had it done,
after sleeping and making corn dollies
and threading poppies through their limbs.
Standing at the net-curtained window of a tall hospital in town
before the needles went in,
nerves stretched and high pitched
I watched the pigeons landing on the roof opposite:
males fanning their feathered backsides
irridescent chests puffed,
dipping expectant heads to unmoved others.
And I watched the people in the office
six floors up
drinking polystyrene coffee at their desks
where piles of files lean in
a hot room,
the smell of sleep and sour morning breath
masked with mint and something from duty free.
There’s a florist on the street across the road,
buses and taxis reflecting in its
with a single stone urn
of cobalt and indigo delphiniums and white roses
ready for scooping into ribboned armfuls
for new mothers.
I get it.
Even in the heavy headed droop of barely there consciousness.
It’s like basting:
it’s flesh couture.
There’s more going on, on the inside,
in the millefeuilled layers
of my body,
each carefully stitched back together.
(The photograph’s not mine. Thanks to Hand Made Food)