Got to love these winter mornings, when the hoary Queen captures the impotent King.
It is that time of year again,
when the still-dark morning
calls me outside,
the sky softly tinged blue
and a flirting breeze,
the heraldic song of the blackbird
lightening the shadows.
Sunday mornings should be lazy mornings, leisurely mornings. There is a feeling of time slowed right down. This morning, at least, the sun is out, its light streaming in through half closed window blinds. Or are they half open? I guess it’s a question of perspective. The dilemma of whiskey drinkers the world over.
The children are asleep. My wife being away with my fourteen year old daughter, I had a late night with my two youngest. First, my son was placated with the latest Doctor Who episode, and then his sister wanted a Marilyn Monroe night. Being a fan of the shining, doomed starlet, she has her favourite movies, but we plumped for Monkey Business, a film in which she has a lesser role. The premise of the film is silly, but that doesn’t matter when you are seeking 90 minutes of escapism.
There were many laugh out loud moments. And, of course, my lad loves monkeys.
Ginger Rogers is brilliant in it. I used to think that she was ‘just’ a dancer, rather than an actress. For someone who professes a love for old films, I can be quite ignorant. But I am au fait with Cary Grant.
So now the kids sleep in, the morning crawls by, languid minute by languid minute, and I observe its pass with a cup of coffee and silent demeanour.
My wife returns tonight: I have a house to clean.
But I have a book to read, too.
The sky laden and ashen,
the earth as hard as iron,
these dead lie all forgotten
in their incumbent sleep.
Their markers angled, fallen,
harsh wind cold, calling.
A funereal morning, stolen,
from the oblivious dead.
Our tread is slow and reverent.
our sacred breath efferent.
In new light we leave our essence,
on trails long grown old.
Well hello, migraine, it’s been a while.
Pull up a chair. Let’s talk about pain, and beauty.