The dark circles increase beneath my eyes
despite regular sleep patterns.
Each day is self-similar and my pillow
has been rather silent with its advice.
Gun-metal clouds blanket the sky
as I prepare for the daily walk
in a freshly mown grassy field
to the small empty nest
camouflaged in the crook
of a tree at the park’s perimeter.
The spread of feathers and sinews
strewn across the footpath
a few evenings ago gave a clue
to the mindless anger of wildlife
and made me wonder if the pigeon
I had seen perched last week
had met its gruesome demise
before the eggs were hatched
or perhaps it was a different bird.
I didn’t walk close enough
to examine the mess.
The identity of my perambulation
is maintained with its indifference
Wine and cheese weekends
is both a tradition and a necessity
in these “troubled times”.
Sometimes these nights
are accompanied by events
that are cultural –
opera, poetry, theatre –
or by the laptop connection
to friends for a virtual visit.
They have their wine
I have mine,
incense fumes and music low
dim lights or candle glow,
we almost forget the real distance
the zeros and ones
of this current existence.
Now it is Sunday
and I anticipate next weekend
to take me from this window view:
the dismal chimneys and rooftops
of the terraced houses
across the road,
the mournful tree
whose buds were afraid
to bloom this spring –
I missed the pink petal
pollution of previous years –
and the lone street lamp
still dark despite the gloom
of the overcast, leaden sky.
Next weekend I will trade
my track pants and tee shirt attire
for something suitable for guests.
I will pretend to have a night out
and trade my comforting cup of tea
for a glass of full-bodied wine
and a seedy biscuit with speciality cheese.