A Constant Drone of Negation.

It’s time for bed.

It’s not late, but I’ve been drinking.

Wine.

Red wine.

Spanish red wine.

Rioja.

Muy Buena, pero ahora estoy burracho.

That may be right.

It may be true.

Who knows?

It’s been one of those days.

Inquietude.

Lots of waiting.

Different languages.

Now, I’ve stopped thinking.

I need some strength for the morning, when most of those things start again.

It has very little to do with any of this, but today the fire crews were clearing up after the floods.

The chapel, which was built in the middle ages below the level of the river was being pumped dry.

The trucks were discharging the water on to the street where it flowed jubilantly back to the river which had flooded earlier.

It seemed counterintuitive.

But what do I know?

It’s late.

I’ve been drinking.

It’s time for bed.

 

 

please note - this was previously published in The Archives.

 

 

 

 

Summer to Dust .

Not one swallow does a summer make.

Yet the last cuckoo of spring is calling.

Hay is cut.

Bailed.

The river beckons.

Again.

The sun scolds, the trees gasp, dust rises around the old man walking on the track.

He should have left at the break of day, instead the day breaks him .

He lies down in the grass and watches the insects scurrying to the shade.

He closes his eyes.

And sleeps.