Waiting for a train
Off on our hols!
Hurry! It's about to leave!
'The Canterbury Tales'
'Whan the Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath pierced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So pricketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages .......'
'What if I didn't leave Bob? What if our slouch towards commitment ended at the altar? What would it be like if I occupied the wife-shaped space next to Bob? My life as a wife. In a Barratt's starter-home, with an avocado bathroom and a three-piece suite in leather. If we ever had a child (curious idea) I thought we should call it Inertia. Although our occasional dull missionary encounters didn't seem passionate enough to produce anything as real and lasting as a child, even one called Inertia, and Bob (more likely to consult Mr. Spock than Dr. Spock) wasn't fit to be in charge of a push-and-pull lawnmower let alone a baby in a pram.'
'On the dull stainless-steel draining.bvoard a huge raw slamon was laid out as if waiting for a post mortem.
'We're having a party,' Archie said, indicating the salmon, rather morosely. It didn't look much of a party-going sort of fish; its silver lamé scales may have gleamed under the kitchen lights but its dead eye was lustreless and fixed and it had leaked blood onto the draining-board. The cat made a great pretence of not seeing the fish.'
The Music in the Trees
There is a music in the trees
that lilts the air and,
sensitive to much,
their boughs bend down
to listen to the ground.
The ground is warm.
The ground is dark,
but often ill at ease with
the burdens of the company;
and then it gladly listens
to the music in the trees.
'The pavement rises up and hits her, Slams into her face, drives the lower rim of her glasses into her cheek. She is laid out there, prone. What is this? Voices are chattering above her; people are concerned. Of course.
She says, 'My bag'.
A face is alongside hers. Woman. Nice woman. 'There's an ambulance on the way, my dear. You'll be fine. Just keep still till they come.'
'Your shopping's right here. The Sainsbury's bag.'
Bag is not. She'd known that somehow. Right away.
Another voice, up above. Man's voice. 'She's been mugged, hasn't she?. That's what it is.'
'In the end, it is my belief, words are the only things that can construct a world that makes sense.'