The house smells of fresh bread, and tea, and cheese. My mind, so often taken on journeys of memory and recollection, is reminded of kitchens, with my mother, Sunday mornings spent actually eating rather than web surfing [not yet a concept invented for the likes of us, mind]. We would watch cartoons [not the kind now spuriously fouling up the minds of children]. Sundays would be spent expanding imaginations, walking around under cold blue skies, finding out the streets and tracks through the town…Imagination tends now to be tempered [or anchored, in the worst of days] by a social anxiety…
The house cat rests across my chest, rubbing herself against my face. Purrs of deep satisfaction, claws pressing into my chest with a suggestion of flirtation. I accept her closeness until the pressure increases to such an extent I fear for the drawing of blood. Her preferred position is spying on the birds she doesn’t techincally recognise, as a house cat, from the vantage point of my cluttered window-sill.
My handwriting has become less legible with the passing months. I have no pen or indeed pencil within easy reach. My memories are touched by the light smoke from poems never finished, ideas not communicated beyond the secret bed of writing paper. And now, it does not get beyond my fingers, these words of consideration and thought. Not for the want of wanting, if you will.
Faces, faces to talk with, to kiss…All fading into the clouds…Sinking deep…There are places to discover. I should revisit the calm of a Sunday.