I worked late again. A snack and bed
at the terrible hour of midnight,
when the floorboards start to wake
as the house sinks down to sleep.
A hot water bottle under the duvet, I am
typing at another screen, small now,
never failing to appreciate the irony,
or is it double irony? I never could tell.
I typed for nights for months, or years,
cannot say. Wrote so many many words,
but when my son asked me, could not
explain what it was I did at work all day.
And by the end of the sixth day, my hands,
they feebly fell, and the tight black ball
that I had been, unfolded and spread out
like a fallen teardrop across the world.
It was that perfect spring day, full of air
and blue skies, and there was hope hiding
just around the corner. The leaves had not
sprouted but there were gliders circling the hill.
I made pancakes for dinner on Easter’s eve.
We filled them with fried pork and artichokes
and scrambled eggs. I made two in the shape
of suns for the kids and the last one was a fish.
The boys made a worm hole in the garden.
That’s right, a hole for worms, filled with water,
but the worms would not come. I was busy
gardening. I promised I would help, tomorrow.
At five I wake from a dream and lie wide open,
memories fluttering out like butterflies, yearning
and sweet and full of regrets, full of things
unfinished and unbegotten and extraordinary.
Now the old village at the top of the hill
which we can see from the bedroom window
is a smudged orange halo, and gold rain
is pouring in, just like it did nine months ago.