and
noting the times down on a small pad
and waking and dozingand
having short dreams
about
missing trains
and
strange ticket machines
until dawns leaving and grey is king looking
round
the heavy
red pleats.
i open a curtain on englands unremarkable december smudge.
friday was a bad evening
where
weakness crept in/was fought off!
and this morning is not apocalyptic and i dont have to leave.
i
wont
cry
early
tears in the hill field/dog walkers eyeing my hunched back
wet
with rain and low mist.
a small bird lands on the berry bush outside
and
up i write a list of good things to do today/i hug the cat
and
tell
him to put the kettle on.
looking out again and the small bird is gone
and
the
berries
withered
by
winter.
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