I woke with three pages of thoughts in my head. A great start to a writing day. But they’re convoluted, and like many just-out-of-sleep thoughts (mine, anyway) may turn out to be fatuous in the light of day. They need some processing. And the later ‘what shall I write’ was met with the usual deafening silence.
So I’ve been reading. Reading my writing. Reading a notebook I found in a drawer last week. The drawer in question used to be right by my bed, before I moved house. The notebook, with the pen and pencils an odd other note-taking material, was by the bed specifically for the first-thing writing practice which got displaced by first-thing dog walks after the move.
And so there’s this:
Morning communion.
She lies beside me
facing me, head erect,
watching.
Unmoving, focused, intent.
When our eyes meet, it is because
I have looked, because
her gaze invoked my attention.
Deep, bright, wise,
her round brown eyes
glisten with knowing.
What does she see?
What might she say
from this intense, erect fixation?
What might there be to know
if those small deeps could speak?
Quick as a blink, without blinking,
Her eyes click from mine
to my mug
and back
to me.
No mystery then, this poise,
this ‘gaze into my soul’
is concentrated desire
anticipation
for
a taste
of tea.
Dregs lapped,
mug interrogated for the
least remains
she turns away
treads her nest
curls
sighs.
Job done.
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.