Behind the dense trees
Back in her holy clearing,
She takes her treasure from
Her leather bag, human skin
Taut from age and supple with
Use, turns the shining circle in
Her hands, long fingers freckled
From life outside, and avoids her
Face in the reflection of the sky,
The sun overhead for a fragment
Of the turning day. A noise, inside
Her fragments her peace into
A kaleidoscope of memories, and
The mirror shatters, the world
In spinning pieces.
R 02/09/2023 11.27
As I said on my substack a couple of day ago, I’m going back to trying to do the MastoPrompt poem every day again, because not exercising my writing brain each day seems to have made my brain sluggish.
We’re all still very numb after Florence’s death, I must admit, and Jam, the one-eyed cat, is only just coming back out of her shell after having retreated into dark places during the time Florence was visbly fading. At least she’s back to sleeping on the blanket box at the foot of our bed again (her and Flo used to take that space in turns), and chasing flies (with amazing precision for a one-eyed cat).
Final word today – I ranted and raved on Radio Stradbroke yesterday morning about how the meteorlogical division of the seasons to fit in with calendar months is yet another sign of how the world is being dumbed down. We are still in summer until the autumn solstice on 23rd September (07:49, to be precise). It makes me very angry indeed that the world is being wrongly organised for the sake of clamping down on critical thinking (and that’s a deliberate act). But then so many things make me angry.