A six-day journal poem
With a thunk and a clack
the glass-panelled door
unlocks the stuffy air.
The scented morning
rushes to entice us
to its ephemeral garden.
The white agapanthis
and hydrangea compete,
my colours – what colours? – are scorned.
Some people call it a drudge,
but there are those that believe
it really depends on what you see:
your journey to work.
I sit at my desk, in my room;
she silently, stealthily finds me.
It may be my scent, or the creaking old chair,
but friendship we seek, and affection.
The rhythmical tap of the keyboard
interrupted by her tinkling bell
are welcome sounds that fuse our thoughts.
No words need ever be spoken.
Embarrassed at first, I talk to the screen,
dictating as clearly as possible.
The text I see is encoded in French,
but turns like magic to English.
I dally on thoughts that have nothing to do
with the task at hand for the day.
Yet, isn’t it strange and wondrous, too,
the brain, its function, and skill?
Now, where was I, yes, the job on my desk,
the deadline is just round the corner.
Today is cold; summer is fooling us.
I raid the wardrobe for winter clothes.
The heating is on, and windows are closed,
be patient and calm for a while.
“Bonjour”, we shout, as the sun lifts its head,
over the hills and trees afar.
The misted glass refracts the light,
so rainbows and prisms abound.
So simple a thing, but glorious too,
the dawn, the light, and awakening.
The soothing sound of the hands of the clock
soon signalled the end of the day.
I longed to behold him and give him a hug
this child, my life, and our future.
The school bell rings and parents approach,
my eyes are fixed to the door.
The children fly out, school bags flailing,
my heart is pounding and impassioned to see
his beautiful smile and boundless love,
the day, the week, is ending.