‘Write about spirit.’ A proffered theme rather than actual instruction. There’s nothing stopping me spending the whole day writing. About anything. Have I? Not a lot. Which is fine, if I can persuade myself that I have been fully aligned with the weather in the context of a cold virus that persists in sitting like a blanket over my system. Which I can’t quite, which is why I’m trying again, post the supper which I didn’t really want but quite enjoyed, to have produced something before the light, such as it has been all day, finally sneaks off over the wet neighbour roofs.
My spirit’s quiet today,
shy, hiding, unwilling
to come out and play,
slow, homed, snail-shelled,
invoking sleep
anachronistic hibernation
on a cold, wet, grey, wild
day of June
decidedly
not
flaming.
She’ll show her face to Facebook
gaze at reels dumbly, for too long.
She’ll flash a glance at the window -
maybe there’s gold -
but still the silvering rain
netcurtains the glass
souses possibility.
I drag her out for a walk with the dogs
Look, I show her the app,
no rain expected for an hour
we can be out and back (just) in that.
Look, I show her the app’s map,
no blue blotches within miles
the dogs need a walk, and it wouldn’t hurt.
Flesh dragged spirit into late October
jumpered, coated, brisk
dogs glad of something doing.
It didn’t rain, exactly
but we came in damp
and boy is she grouchy
poor dogs.
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