I’ve been kidding myself that I’ve been much too busy to write anything. Too busy clearing leaves from an otherwise trouble free garden. Too busy shovelling horse dung into borders. Too busy tying Quality Street (only the ones they like) onto the brass hoops on the advent ‘calendar’. Too busy Spurfing (that’s Spotify surfing. Nostalgia tripping. Time wasting).
I’ve just been lazy. If I don’t read poetry than I can’t write it and I haven’t read anything for weeks. Not a single verse. Until yesterday. So thanks to Elaine Feinstein and the solidly reliable Elizabeth Bishop for kicking my backside….(And thanks, Spotify for Everything But the Girl. It’s been a long time…)
feint smudged pencil ticks
in the margins
purposeful to the tick tail end.
Glasses slipped, apron flour bleached
and tied where that scoop of flesh met hip.
Gathering raisins, sultanas, almonds, hard crusted peel
lemons, oranges and
too old, oil-skinned Bramleys.
And suet, curded on the chopping board
severed from shining kidney clots, neat in a hand.
And sliding jars to find last year’s spice and
the half grated nutmeg
and the dark muscovado set hard in its bag.
I open her book.
And her pencil marks bring that momentary heave,
that rounded heavy gap.
I make my ticks next to hers.