Stream of Consciousness Saturday, 24 July
I’m in the garden
before the rain starts again.
for the kitchen windowsill,
and a fistful of parsley.
Cod with parsley sauce tonight.
Mum’s old vase for the roses,
tarnished, blueish, needs a polish.
But not now.
The parsley is washed.
Sand and soil settle
in the washbowl,
not many insects,
and no spray used either.
to be pleased about that, but I am.
I probably shouldn’t be.
Temperatures peel off, but
humidity is rising. Fresh air slips
under the open window,
a breeze scatters the kitchen curtains.
I smell rain.
There’s a word for that smell but
I can’t remember it right now.
Stop thinking about it; it’ll come.
There’s weather coming this way.
It’s bearing-down. Lightning.
There’s something haunting about
muffled thunder, it’s a lumbering roll,
and everything about it dwarfs thoughts.
I slip away into my own head,
into a puddle below the kitchen window.
It’s a tide that won’t wash away.
Saw a black and white photo of the moon yesterday.
It was the colour of a tomb,
expected to hear a deep death rattle.
Thunder would’ve been timely.
I can’t get that picture out of my head,
it knocked me sideways –
the way caterpillars gave my mother a fright.
If I’d had a daughter,
I’d have named her Demelza.
I love that name.
I’m named after my mother’s friend
who sat a pair of scissors.
A petal falls from one of the roses
but my only glue is spit.
Ah yes, that smell. It’s called petrichor.
written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday #SoCS. Shared with #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
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