a nip in the air
that by half past two
will have disappeared leaving
a winter uniform
radiating polyester
heat.
new bag, new pencil case,
new pen, new ruler,
all rigid with first day nerves,
soon will have stories
written all over them.
a freshly made packed lunch
two sandwiches, crisps, an apple,
will not be fully eaten
til day three.
I’ll never be this early for the bus again.
The girl who lives
in the house like mine
with the sitting room like mine
and the coffee cup like mine
and the cat like mine
(in my imagination)
and the carpets like mine
and the sofa like mine
(Ercol, again, slight wishful thinking)
and whose presence I have
every time I ran past
her house found
strangely reassuring
(you could see straight in the window
until she frosted the glass)
for the last eight years
has moved.
I am bereft.
Who am I?
my day was
scheduled to death.
every slot too small to
fit a human.
I had to hope
that no-one had any
curiosity left in them.
or everything would
fall apart.
I was lucky;
they had all forgotten
what life was –
if they ever knew.
obediently they toed the
schedule line,
retrieved themselves from
exuberance.
someone had bad news from from home,
regrouped in a
coffee break,
swallowed sadness and
cappuccino straight down,
got back in the game.
all around us autumn beauty
unfolded steady as a
queen.
we had four point five minutes
in which to walk to the river and back;
by then numb to it all,
I can see it like a photo,
feel nothing.
I don’t know if I can
do this anymore.
I woke in my bed
voile curtains adrift
at the open window.
Perfect tea.
Absorbed in a magazine
that never disappoints.
I sat in the garden
to eat breakfast –
a courtyard really,
five metres by three,
maximum, all my
flowers are blooming.
I swept; faint scent
of rose petals,
of sweet peas,
which I picked.
I ran at the seaside.
It was easy on the way out,
due to the wind, but I didn’t realise
this at first and thought I
could run faster.
I wrote my journal with
tea in a thermal cup that
tasted – just – of washing up liquid.
I’d used too-old cherries
for the rock bun.
I bathed in the
bath that used to have an
uninterrupted view of sky,
until my neighbour
moved the television aerial.
I try to pretend it is a bird’s
perch.
It’s not often.
I dealt with email;
at the garden table, to
an old friend, after ten years
distance, at least.
His children are grown up.
Clouds sniffed past
cool breezes.
I ironed sheets and
pastel clothes that
wafted comfort,
listening to Chopin.
I wrote a poem.
Dear extraplorer,
I’m home. You may not realised it but I have been away a long time. I have to tell you that everything I have been doing while I have been away has been very important. I have been working all over the world, helping people to grow. I have been writing at home for weeks, finishing off a book I hope will make a difference to the world, and bring more courage and joy and delight (but will anyone ever read it, I’m not sure). And I’ve been keeping hope alive wondering what someone else is doing in a far away place. I have been cooking and eating and seeing friends and doing pilates and running and sleeping. Sometimes I have crept in here to see you and I have wished that I had something to write here. But all my thoughts have been in my book and all my energy has been on planes and trains and in classrooms, and I have wandered around in my heart but not been ready to share what is in there, not yet.
extraplorer, I miss you, but I am here now, and I will be back. Be patient.
x
extraplorer 