Monday, 1 March 2010
Tea, cold on the counters
Blackbirds and honey bees
Time slowed to a whisper,
flat calm and grey
Raw as morning and pebble smooth.
His sails lie idle,
listless wishes and wasted time
And those moving hands rattle her bones
My days have slowed, almost to a standstill, each one grey and brittle like that place between sleep and awake; the cold of morning and half forgotten dreams. March is here, that treacherous month, a month best waited out with cups of tea and a stack of books, and that's what I've been doing; poetry and anthropology, novels and theory, all piled high.
Today it is as cold as winter and as clear as spring, the sky is a scattering of stars and my tea leaves read like a book... Today I love tea and toast with jam at midnight, I love the feathers that weave themselves into my hair as I sleep; sound and deep. Today I love that sea green scarf and the smell of leather and paper, I love lyrics and lines both old and new and I hate words left unsaid. Today the woman I want to be is somebodys' daylight, she wanders between the rooms in bare feet and jumpers, her walls are lined with books and she knows every star in the sky...