up and look at the grey dampness of an early Irish spring outside the window, the wet grass, grey green. Grey because of the water drops, green because of the chlorophyll. Yellow daffodils because it is Easter.
Go to the bathroom, toodlehoo, shave with the shaver, wash the shaving gel off of the face, admire the now-infected spot on the right cheek where there had been a pustula, one that should not have been squeezed out so roughly.
Take a shower wash the hair, return to the bedroom. The son is still asleep, oblivious, distant, away in the land of Nod.
Take that pill, the one to calm, to relieve the depression. Just one, not so serious.
It is the wedding day today, Lorna, the youngest of a large family, it is the last day in the south of Ireland, the last day in this soft green landscape with it's crepescular mornings.
In the kitchen the brothers son is up and resting in his fathers seat, dreaming, awakenining, preening the long long hair that eleven year olds wear these days, that eleven year olds may wear these days, these days of free thought
Make a coffee, and make these notes,
The young man goes to wake the son.
The son will not waken, and the little bright birds are at their feeders, pecking away whilst clinging to the wire structures with their tiny claws, never using the plasic perches placed there for them by the human designer of the feeder.
And there is nothing in the news today, a quiet Saturday.
Go to the bathroom, toodlehoo, shave with the shaver, wash the shaving gel off of the face, admire the now-infected spot on the right cheek where there had been a pustula, one that should not have been squeezed out so roughly.
Take a shower wash the hair, return to the bedroom. The son is still asleep, oblivious, distant, away in the land of Nod.
Take that pill, the one to calm, to relieve the depression. Just one, not so serious.
It is the wedding day today, Lorna, the youngest of a large family, it is the last day in the south of Ireland, the last day in this soft green landscape with it's crepescular mornings.
In the kitchen the brothers son is up and resting in his fathers seat, dreaming, awakenining, preening the long long hair that eleven year olds wear these days, that eleven year olds may wear these days, these days of free thought
Make a coffee, and make these notes,
The young man goes to wake the son.
The son will not waken, and the little bright birds are at their feeders, pecking away whilst clinging to the wire structures with their tiny claws, never using the plasic perches placed there for them by the human designer of the feeder.
And there is nothing in the news today, a quiet Saturday.
No comments:
Post a Comment