ʻWhen I began writing, late …ʼ
is a sorry phrase to begin with.
Rather, ʻafter I began writing, late…
which draws the reader in
but then begs to be followed
by something extraordinary.
And what
was extraordinary about today?
For starters, the sun shone
bright as a catʼs eye. Oh really!
I hear you groan, how lame.
And I can report that the weeping fig
received a haircut, my daughter
brandishing the silver scissors
like a brand new heart.
And then the hadedahs arrived
in their blue-gilt wings
and explosions of dust,
ripping worms from the lawn
with prickly movements
and trumpet cries.
That was this morning.
In the afternoon,
a hail-storm rappelled
against the windowpanes,
burnishing the cityscape
with damp cloths of rain.
What else? Well,
the street-lights came on
early, as though little sputniks
were travelling through the haze.
And that, Iʼm afraid, was that.
So, nothing happened today,
which is why I got into bed,
read awhile, and then
began writing, late.
