It's Still Life

The Alcove: Strikethrough

two on the fence, one grey squirrel motionless, an the other — its tail a rudder steering through speed, crimped and flagging semaphores messages; a spiderweb at the window, delicate as Brugge lace, a breeze inflicting coaxing teasing a minute tremor through its lattices; autumn arrived two months early, as though woollen socks had some private grievance against summer the world had grown impatient with itself.

I enjoy revision. 

Mimi’s raisin spice cake arrives: a precise, sharp-angled cut of geometry on a plate that’s enough to make a student forgive the necessity of maths.

“Thank you, Denise,” I smile, still admiring the care taken; “Enjoy, …” she starts, then pauses, and I lift the air by saying, “Marilyn — just Marilyn.”

“What are you writing?”

My answer is in no rush: “What I see, mostly … it’s a habit of attention.”

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