Monday, January 17, 2011

Blue Monday

Today is apparently the most depressing day of the year. Not so, say I.

You will try to squash us,
by tempting deprived tastebuds with
golden caramel chocolates and
leftover Christmas panettone,
goading our unrealistic resolutions to
give up a food group.
You will pour rain, cold and unrelenting
on coats bought in the sales and
soak our trouser hems with a smile on your face.
You will cloud the sky with doubt,
and make us feel our lowest when
a week ago we were aglow with newness,
a rosy cocoon of promise and wellbeing.
We will fight you, though
with endless cups of steaming tea,
and pull out our emergency store of
carrots and crackers;
you will lead us not into temptation.
We will brandish overpriced umbrellas and
smile against the lashing rain as we listen
to our new records bought as gifts,
in our new earphones, bought as presents,
as you try to smite us.
We will make broad, bubbling vats of
warming stews and casseroles,
using healthy ingredients and
food to fight off colds.
We will not let you defeat us,
we will think of brightness, beauty, and truth
and be yellows, purples, lime greens
and look for other days
amidst your blue, blue, blue,
Blue Monday.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

January, early morning

A platform, 7am.
Umbrellas flap like batwings,
shaken down towards the floor
in sodden, sinewy shame.

The tide is glugging in,
unseen and thick,
burbling muddy promises.

A dog barks, and our necks crane
to see if it's loose on the tracks.
The noise travels on the wind,
and we hear
its source; the darkened beach.

A peninsular blinks and twinkles,
a whole other county getting ready for the day.
Enormous ships slice towards
the mouth of the North Sea, more
and lowly fog horn sounds.

Cargo, bright yellow drums; we see them from
the shore,
the only ones escaping.
We are city-bound,
and I stand awaiting the sleek,
unwanted train,
wishing I was on any ship,

heading out to sea.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Apple picking

Our faces are rosy apples,
cold blooming blush on our cheeks
as we crunch our way to the lower branches.
They hang heavy, bowed,
leaning their fruit our way.
Your feet sink into wormy windfalls,
and we make gurning faces
at the slime.
I pick one off the tree and bite,
crisp skin bursting
and tart, too-early flesh tingling my tongue.
You lean and take a bite,
mouth smiling at the sourness,
and we look up at the chiller cabinet sky.
Your eyes are saucers and
my face feels numb
as we fill paper bags with our finds.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket
and we are hurtled back to real-time,
to the real world,
shattering our illusion of centuries past.
I felt like we were in a Christina Rosetti poem;
you said Anne of Green Gables.
You ignore your phone and take my hand,
the other swinging apples in our bag.
We pad our way home,
talking of crumbles and maybe jam.

This poem was originally posted on