Masked Native

Sometimes,

days are too quiet, too cold,

too frustrating to be interested in

anything much, except how I am

the only person I know having such

a miserable time of it, but I know

that’s not true, so I tell myself to

climb out of the hole of self-indulgent

pity, it’s time-wasting and the doldrums

are not where I meet any interesting

people, especially on a grey winter

morning when SAD syndrome threatens.

I will engage a spirit of cheerfulness

to light up my day, be eccentric,

wear the black velvet jacket with all my

vintage brooches on the lapel, ask the

cashier at the supermarket for a

six-penny stamp and one of those blue

air-mail letters that are also an envelope.

When I get home, I will make a pot of tea in

my Mother’s blue willow-pattered tea pot,

shame I dropped the lid and broke it ages ago,

I still haven’t found a replacement to fit the gap.

Sometimes, around twilight,

when the house is quiet and

my cat sits full stretch on my writing desk,

I hear the indescribable sound of his rough

tongue licking his paws to clean behind

his ears, when he’s finished, we listen to

small creatures that move through the

night garden beyond the window.

I mark the passage of the moon rolling a

silver thunder to lovers in a sky of dreams,

close my eyes in the far away music,

drumming to the beat of my heart.