Another Day Begins

And another day begins.

And the alarm goes off so early that it is still dark, wailing away like a bereft and hurt child, before you can club it to silence.

And another day begins.

And you lay there in the dark, caught between the blissful unconsciousness and tired consciousness, between duty to get up and the desire, the deep need to sleep.

And another day begins.

And the alarm goes off again. You club it senseless again, and lie there, with an aching bladder and the foul taste in your mouth. You are awake.

And another day begins.

And the hot water isn’t on yet, and you cut yourself shaving and there are a pile of yesterdays bills among the detritus on the kitchen benches, and the milk is off and the toast is burnt and the kettle boils away to itself, un-notice un-loved and un-wanted.

And outside the rain slashes down and the trees read up to the sky with cold skeletal hands, begging for salvation

And people and buses, and cars and trains hustle and bustle by, sickening keen to start the day

And the cheery, buoyant and above all irritating radio presenters introduces another, sickening, cheery, buoyant, and above all irritating pop song, by another cheery, buoyant and above irritating pop star as you try to get you head straight before you brave your way to work, as;

Another day begins.

Just like all the others, with all the joy the light and life taken out of it.

Another day begins.

With always so much that has to be done, and so little that you want to do.

And another day begins.

To merge with the last, in a sea of grey, bland, memories.

Sparrow’s Flight

Out of the darkness,
into the light.
The sparrow’s flight,
takes it

From the cold stormy night,
into the warmth, the heart’s delight.
Suddenly.

Weaving, darting, through the rafters,
full of life and joy and laughter,
the little bird flies.

It sings, it sings,
high and clear.
So all around can hear,
the melody of its song.

But all too soon it is gone.
Even as the song’s echo, lingers on.

The bird flies in by a window and out again.
From the dark night and back again.
Within our reason, and beyond our ken.

A few wing beats, a swift flight.

A short burst of song.



For my grandmother, Gwen (1922 – 2007)