On my way to buy a morning paper #74

From above my head:

Click of castanets suggest a black and white fandango.

Pyjama trousers, a wet dream, 
from their hanging, buttons banging against the window glass.

And, maybe tuning into my in-queue thoughts about a tidy bum,

Steve Harley offers radio invitation.

In the act of buying a morning paper

Penny, serving paper and a pint of milk,

thanks me no less than seven times.

Paper, milk passed over; coupon, Co-op card, pound coin.

On return of change (for which I thank her, and, again, she me).

And an eighth time as I walk away.

Reading in the garden

Sundays and Bank holidays the leisurely high whine

of small white aeroplanes against pure blue sky

speaks to me of riches I could envy.

Sunday morning (late for me)

Starlings 3, 2, 1 across a neighbour’s roof-ridge

Four spoons, not five of mis-bought ‘Swiss-style’ muesli

Six fishermen cars, all of which are silver

and neither soul nor sound until an alien bouncy castle

smoke and smell of frying sausages

in the otherwise-deserted pub.

First day of husband away.

The soft, delightful pleasure to be had

reading a quiet book

in a near-silent house

which recalls so many memories of young motherhood.

From my window

Raindrops on the only slightly open window

invisible against the pale blank sky

become silver streaks and saucer-shapes

in contrast to the wine red sycamore beyond.

On my way to buy a morning paper #73

First four folk I see today –

a jogger and two dog-walkers

– all wearing pink, like me.

Fourth man, striped spearmint

same colour as the top mine was meant to be.

Scratched and battered but still in daily use.

Bread board, carving dish

folding metal clothes airer

and two Pyrex lidded casseroles

– wedding presents still in use

in our Golden year.

Markings

Splashes of raspberry tea

and several red wine circles

destroy the pristine symmetry

of a pink-squared soapstone chess board.

From my window

Six foot by two of fine foam wrapping

somersaults along the street

rolling and unrolling in preparation for its maiden voyage

as a magic carpet.

Until a tidy-minded neighbour scoops it up and bins it.

West versus east, forecast versus actuality:

Woken by the horizontal howling

chill slicing the summer pudding of my dream

(eaten warm but ingredients anonymous)

I am surprised by the golden blue of sunrise

when I had anticipated grey rain.

In advance of the Writer's Workshop Festival of Writing

Dreams of arriving late –

wrong place, wrong clothes,

mouth spouting inappropriate opinions –

all symptoms of anxiety I’m unaware of

further infiltrated by the early morning churning of the breadmaker.

On my way to buy a morning paper #72

Sixteen pristine, two-thirds finished dog-ends

on the path beside the railings round the pub

from which I straightaway concoct

a late-night, muttered, intense and distressed conversation.

Breakfast fruit

The cicatrice lace of cantaloupe skin

has me wanting to roll it with ink,

to roll it and print patterned paper 
to cover a notebook.

Programmed?

The man who entered the shop before me swerves, turns and leaves again, his actions wordlessly informing me the papers have yet to arrive.
Even so, I have to go and check for myself. 

Post visits

The ‘otherness’ of offsprings’ now-homes

offset, a little bit, by sight of mugs or quilts or something other

brought with them from childhood.

From second storey window

6 a.m. shift change

Cars arrive, depart, arrive

judging to a practised nicety

second-, third-chance closing of the garage door.

Visiting my daughter

Accustoming myself, on waking, to the reflections

on the glass panels of the mezzanine balcony divide

I am startled by the sudden emergence of a new red planet

until I see it is a paper lampshade, blowing in the wind.

Walking into town

Silver wires and foil cap, once holding in a cork

discarded and now flattened onto glass-embedded path

shaping a tiny fairy coachlet, fit to hold a fairy queen.

Southbound on the A42

Seen from above, a yellow van, inadequately hidden for its presumable intention.

Back of a flatbed lorry, scarlet rose of tight-rolled tarpaulin.

A shocking pink fork-lift truck, piggy-backed to a wagon

and, weighing down a roadwork sign, another pig,

a saddleback, which morphed to sandbags, orange, black and orange. 

Reminded of Sindy furniture

Dislocating contrast –

turquoise plastic tub chairs, blinding white wall –

with the pot-holed squalor

outside the dentist’s door.

On my way to buy a morning paper #71

Alternating Tuesdays, fortnightly delight

recycling Giorgio Morandi

green, blue and white.

On my way to buy a morning paper #70

Loose clothes, windblown
give me a cartoon-frightened shadow.

Connie, yesterday.

The ease with which a ten year-old

lifts her foot to lie, high on her thigh, sole upwards
to replace a sticking plaster

then cartwheels off.

On my way to buy a morning paper #69

Two cats flat-bellied to the ground

shadows bigger than themselves

blatantly, blinkingly, ignoring

cacophony from the tree above

On my way to buy a morning paper #68

Later than usual going for the paper.

Six silver cars and one burnt tangerine

and a poor man’s Wallis Simpson, lemon-faced.

Shower thought

Slivers of un-turquoised toenail
denote nine days absence from my home
but should be painted golden
for the pleasures I had elsewhere

Sweaty from doing it in the sun

Ironing linen trousers:
tissue flakes to be removed
ten or more manipulations
and then they never hang up right.

On rising

Same time
same quality of silver dawning light
behind still night-black trees
as last week, through slatted blinds,
in Alabama

Anticipating visitors

Dusting top of dresser
(first time in decades)